Visitant
by Melancholy's Child
Summary: Christine believes she is content to perform the streets of Paris with her father. But when a reclusive maestro sets his attention upon her, her whole perception of what it means to be truly alive will crumble. Historical vampire AU, E/C, rated M for eventual smut and violence.
1. Prologue: stroll

**I'm back with a new fic! This is a historical AU, E/C, romance/angst fic. I have no idea how long it will go, but it will definitely be rated M.  
**

**This idea hit me a while back and just wouldn't leave. I've borrowed a bit of mythology for all over the place, but in particular I use a few details from Kresley Cole's paranormal series.**

** I'm terribly nervous about this prologue, so please let me know what you think! Even though this prologue is only from Erik's pov, this fic will be written in both Erik and Christine's pov. Here we go!**

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**The Visitant**

by Melancholy's Child

"But servitors, with trembling, marked full well

A wondrous face behind him in the gloom;

Of flame it seemed, yet nothing did illume;

Laughing revenge gleamed red in every line:

But how it entered the pavilioned room,

Or how it past, no mortal could divine;

A visitant it seemed from some unhallowed shrine."

\- Ettrick Sheppard, "Mador of the Moor"

**Prologue: stroll**

On Sunday evening, the Ghost went for a stroll.

At first, he had not with all seriousness meant to undertake such a venture. Upon one moment, he had been pausing halfway up the narrow, curving staircase that led to the basement of his home, checking once more that the sun was no longer pouring through the checkered glass of the windows. Upon the next, he had stepped into the foyer and taken up his hat and cloak.

Darius had been at his elbow at once, assisting with the cloak. A deep furrow cut across the brown skin of his forehead, the lines used to the path. Darius's prerogative was to worry first and ask questions next.

"Maestro?"

"I am going out," he said, cutting off the Persian. Darius had made a fine butler for this past decade, but sometimes Erik simply wanted to avoid such looks like the one he was receiving now.

"Perhaps I shall go with you, maestro? We can take the carriage."

Erik shook his head, then tugged his wide-brimmed hat atop his thin hair. He was careful not to knock the full white mask askew. Darius might be his long-term servant, and therefore had to deal with the worst of him anyway, but Erik could not shield him from such a sight should he see it without warning.

"I should not be long," he said to Darius. "Find me something to eat when I return."

Yes, it was Sunday evening, and he had decided to go for a walk above for the first time in decades. No wonder his servant was giving him such a look.

The Ghost felt the brass knob of the door against his palm before he put on his remaining black kidskin glove. The brass was still slightly warm to the touch, but not overly so. With the winter thaw having hit a few weeks ago, the days were starting to stretch, the sunlight lingering longer in the evening.

He had to take certain extra precautions during this time of year.

In any case, the lack of light streaming into the windows – and so many goddamn windows this Medieval place had – told him what he needed to know. The knob turned easily in his hand, and he stepped out into the courtyard, the red wooden door banging shut behind him.

It was not dark outside, not quite. Sunlight still flickered across the gently sloping roofs of Paris, the glow a deep sunset orange. Many of the streets of this city were enshrined within these tall buildings, a feature he appreciated for its ability to cause the deep shadows into which he now stepped. Pulling his cloak tighter about his shoulders, he emerged from the courtyard of his own home and turned left for no reason other than it sent him _east_.

The lit streetlamps cast thin shadows from the promenading masses enjoying the slightly warmer weather. He had not expected the streets to be so busy, but then, he had never really chosen to step outside like this, had he? He kept a close, suspicious eye on passersby, looking for any lingering gazes, but no one seemed to notice his mask nor his tall, hulking figure.

For all the presence he knew he exuded, he might as well not have existed at all. This indifference what was he had expected – and even hoped for – when he first stepped outside his home. Pedestrians parted around him, giving him space but casting no looks his way.

It was exactly what _should_ have happened. So why did the lack of attention sting so much?

The people of Paris chattered together in twos or threes. Women linked arms with men and tossed back their rouged lips to laugh. Everyone in this prominent neighborhood seemed to have somewhere to go or someone to be with.

It did not take him long to realize his mistake.

By the time he made it several streets over, his body had seized in panic. A combination of longing and too much effort sent his inky limbs stiffening, his knees threatening to buckle. He all but tossed himself into the first empty stairwell he saw, shouldering the door open to slide upon the stoop. It was as far as he could get into the residence without being invited, but at least he could hide for a moment.

Gods, he ached all over. It had taken him too much effort to sluice the curious eyes of those outside, especially as weakened as he was. How long had it been since he had last consumed any real food? Years, he thought, not since that ruffian of a stagehand he had done away with at the opera house. He had drunk himself into oblivion afterward to rid himself of the taste, but the _strength._ He remembered the surge of it through his veins, the way the pounding in his head had eased, how he could cross the whole of the city without fatigue.

He needed more time to rest, but he could not ignore the painful tingling at his back to leave this residence he had invaded. He slipped back upon the sidewalk with every intent to press back the way he had come until he reached home.

And that is when he heard it. The sound of a violin being played by masterful hands.

The music flowed between the tall buildings, wrapping around the light-colored stone and seeping through the waning light to tease at his ears. Erik snapped his head around, locating its direction at once. His legs quivered in protest at setting out even farther from the house, and the exposed skin of his neck and chin were approaching the tightness of sunburn, but he pushed himself to cross the street.

He had spent decades beneath the opera house mere levels away from a full orchestra. Those musicians had some talent – as well they should since he had chased away any who were lacking. However, the notes that he heard now transcended any he had heard before. This player demonstrated a conquering of every sound and transition, of every vibrato caused by the tips of fingers expertly wielded.

He wanted to hear more.

The streets were more crowded here. He turned around a corner and hissed despite himself, drawing back. The street had suddenly opened to a common green space, and the winter-bare trees were not enough to diffuse the last rays of sunset glinting between buildings.

Again, he was torn between returning home and continuing. The music teased at him, threads of soothing reverberations that pulled him forward. He slinked from doorway to doorway and, as his shoulders began to smolder, he threw himself against the rough bark of a tree, the trunk shielding him effectively enough. No one noticed the tall, thin figure clad all in black who seemed ready to collapse at any moment.

Here, the violin played clearer, the notes seeking him unencumbered. The comforting sounds eased the burning of his neck and shoulders. He heard as the low, heavy notes blended into the next song – a lively piece that soon had spectators clapping along. A street musician, playing for coin on the streets.

Erik hazarded a glance around the trunk, his shrewd eye landing on a brown-haired, bearded man. He played the violin with practiced ease, one foot tapping the quick beat, his movements that of a master. He could have easily usurped the principal violinist at the Palais, and Erik had half a mind to arrange such a scandal.

Onlookers tossed coins into the violinist's upturned hat. When the man stopped playing, and it became clear that the performance had ended, Erik almost fled immediately. Instead, he lingered despite his trepidation.

A laugh sounded, followed by a female voice calling out in accented French: "Thank you, madame!"

He caught the twirl of a simple dark blue skirt. He edged around the trunk to see a young woman scoop up the hat and hold it aloft to audience members with outstretched hands and more coin. His shrewd eyes drank her in until he saw her turn toward his direction. She laughed again, and her face split wide upon a smile so effortless and carefree, it rooted him to his spot. One of her hands came up to sweep a ringlet of honey-blonde hair from her shoulder. The strands caught one last beam of faded light streaming through the bare branches, and they glinted as brightly golden as the sun.

And then her eyes shifted and landed on him. She _saw him_ in a way no one else had this evening. Even though they were across the park from each other, those blue depths, as blue as he remembered the sky being, noticed him there.

He swung back around the trunk, putting the last of his energy into being _forgotten. _His chest ached again, but he did not think the sensation was all from fatigue.

The bark dug into his back through his cloak. The evening dipped fully into dusk, and the crowds dispersed. He hazarded another look around the trunk and saw as the young woman linked arms with the violinist. She gave him that same dazzling smile from before and called the man "Papa" as they began to discuss plans for dinner.

Even though she did not cast another glance his way, Erik remembered the way it had felt with her eyes upon him. He remembered the whiteness of her smile, the glowing of her hair. He knew then what he must do were he to survive.

The Ghost would take a wife.


	2. Chapter 1: pace

**Thank you all for the response to the prologue! Your comments kept me going on this. I can't wait to peel back the layers of this story and show you what I have in store for you.**

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**Chapter 1: Pace**

Despite the chilliness of this particular evening, Parisians flooded the streets post dinner time. Christine gave each gentleman and lady a smile, hoping her friendliness combined with her father's beautiful music would loosen their purses. Patrons in this part of the city were not as quick with their coin as they had been closer to the entertainment district, even though they had more of it to give away.

She missed the livelier places they had once inhabited, when couples would toss a coin and then dance along to one of Papa's waltzes. There, people broke their bread and drank their wine right there on the sidewalk, and it was easy to glean a meal or two while performing.

She knew why they had moved again, of course. Traveling musicians could quickly wear out their welcome if they overplayed in the same location. The newer they were to the neighborhood, the more Papa could dazzle fresh ears with his violin.

At least this arrondissement was beautiful to look upon. Its towering buildings with intricate stone details and colorful shutters put the tenements of their own neighborhood to shame. She enjoyed watching the gentleman with their smooth top hats and the ladies with their fur shawls crossing the park's grounds. She did her best to ignore the whispers behind gloved hands about her faded dress and messy updo.

The lit street lamps cast long shadows upon the trees. The crowd was beginning to thin as the last bit of light faded. Christine did her best to keep the mood lively.

And then she saw him, again – the man who seemed built of the shadows themselves.

His dark silhouette tucked neatly behind one of the trees at the far end of the park. Indeed, she might not have noticed him there… except for the fact that he had been in that same spot every evening for the past two weeks. He was dressed all in black, and his face seemed covered by something far too white to be his own skin, unless it was a trick of the shadows. One of his hands, encased in a white opera glove, gripped the rough edges of the tree.

The man did nothing more than stand there and watch Papa play his last round of songs, just as he had every other night. Although she did her best to ignore him, she could feel his eyes upon her, eyes that seemed like two pinpricks of lamplight. She knew she should not let him bother her; he had not done anything suspicious. They _were_ street performers, after all.

Christine shifted her focus to collecting Papa's hat and dividing the coins between her pockets and his. They had learned long ago to keep their earnings in different places; if a pickpocket targeted them, at least they wouldn't lose everything from the day.

Papa smiled at her as he finished his final song of the evening. Then he tucked his violin into its case and stretched, popping joints that had been held in one position for hours.

"How much did we make, Lotte?" he asked.

"Not as much as yesterday, but I think we will be able to pay the landlord on time."

"Good, good." He picked up the case, placed the hat back atop his curly blonde hair, and held out his elbow. "Shall we head home and eat the rest of that stew?"

"Yes, Papa." As she took his arm, she glanced over her shoulder. The man still stood behind the tree. While other patrons had moved on when it was obvious that they were done playing, he seemed to have little other purpose than this continuous, habitual observation.

She lowered her voice. "Papa, that man is back again."

Charles did not look. "Leave him be," he said, which was the same thing he had said yesterday. "He must enjoy the music to come every night, and he is not doing any harm by being there."

Christine did not argue. She had already tried. The man sent a shiver up her spine, but Papa could not understand why. Of course they wanted the attention of people on the streets – that was the whole purpose of being here. However, this man stood out to her in a way that seemed not entirely innocent.

She risked one more look as they left the park, but this time, the man was not there.

They made their way quickly across the Seine and to their own neighborhood, the walk taking about half an hour. They shared a two-room room section of the top floor of a tenement. Papa had his own bedroom, which was large enough for his straw-stuffed bed, and Christine slept in an area off the kitchen, not a negative during the colder winter months.

It was not a long walk, but by the time they had reached the front door to the stairwell, Charles's cheeks had paled, his breathing coming out in raspy gasps.

Christine took the violin case from him and looped her other arm under his shoulders. She did not want to risk him falling again in a sudden burst of fatigue. She could feel the thinness of him even through his coat; he had once been such a broad-shouldered man with a strong, bearded jaw that she loved to tickle as a child. Over the past year, this sickness had drained him in more ways than one.

They staggered up the many flights until they reached their own small wooden door. Christine fetched the key from Papa's pocket and opened it for them both. Wearily, he managed his way to the armchair before the coughing started.

"I'll make tea," she said, as she always did. Her movements were swift and accustomed; after their excursions outside, Papa always needed warmth to cool the tickle in his throat and ease the rasping in his lungs. The mint soothed like nothing else had.

She busied herself about the kitchen, going ahead and stirring the stove awake so she could heat up their leftover stew. By the time the tea kettle whistled, her father was in full-blown attack, his face bright red from the strain of coughing. She gave him a portion of hot water to sip on while the tea steeped, and stroked his back.

Once they both had a cup of tea, and he could breathe again at last, she steeled herself for the usual argument.

"Papa, if you would let me –"

He cut her off, undoubtedly already knowing what she was going to say. "Don't start this up again, Lotte."

"Please, Papa. I don't want to argue with you, but something needs to change. I am already coming with you, so I might as well join you in performing."

He took a long drought of tea to soothe a sudden fit of coughing. "Out of the question," he said gruffly once he had regained control. "And you only come with me because I need an extra pair of eyes on our coin."

"I can do more than stand there! If you would let me sing, we might be able to make more money."

"What more do I need to say?" His eyes, watery from so much coughing, were hard. "The cold air would destroy your voice, destroy your lungs. I could not see you also catch whatever plagues me."

Christine rested her teacup on her knees and tried to keep her voice calm. "What about when spring comes? Already, the sun is warmer, the days longer. I could sing then."

He shook his head. "I should have better work by then."

"Papa," she said, frowning, "that is what you said last spring."

"And I have had this infection since _last spring_!" He banged his teacup down upon the small end table, sending dark liquid sloshing over his fingers.

She winced, closing her eyes as though not being able to see his angry face would shield her from the noise. His sudden shout brought on another bout of coughing. He got up and went to the washbasin; sometimes the cool water upon his face and throat helped.

Through her unshed tears, she did not see him move back over to where she sat, but she heard his heavy trod and she felt the heaviness of his hand upon her head.

"Forgive me, Lotte," he said thickly. "Whatever ails my lungs… it is worsening. I fear you might catch the same if you strain yourself. I feel ashamed enough that you are out there with me at all, much less that you join me in whoring yourself to the crowds. If I could see any better way, then I would say so."

She stood, glaring at him through her tears. "All of these what-ifs… what if I catch your infection? But I haven't, have I? What if you manage to find better employment? But every time you try, you are turned away because of your cough. What if _this_, what if _that_? I can't continue to live within the cage of all these what-ifs, Papa!"

The look he gave her sent shame rising within her, but she had followed him in silence for too long.

"I know you want to protect me," she continued, "but I am not a little girl anymore."

His voice was strained when he replied: "Perhaps that is why I want to protect you."

Christine could not stand the sadness in his eyes and went over to the stove to heat up the stew. Over the past few years, something had changed. Partly, his illness was to blame for the tension between them. Partly, however, was exactly what she had said: she was not a little girl anymore. How much longer could she simply follow her father about the country, watching as he played the violin for scraps?

She had no answer to that question.

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Erik rested against the rough bark of the tree for as long as he dared. His hat was knocked askew as he leaned his head back, staring through the bare tree branches at the ebony-blue of the sky. The first stars were winking into existence.

He had seen _her _again.

It had taken too much energy to maintain his glamor while the young woman kept so much of her focus upon him. She had noticed him far more than anyone else, her curiosity a cloying drain that he could not seem to shake. Why was she so unlike the others? He knew why _he_ was drawn to her – with her hair the color of sunlight and her eyes the color of the sky, she reminded him of everything he had lost and yearned for. In her, he might find himself again.

When she and her father began to make their way home, he took a deep, steadying breath and left. He did not follow them to the apartment this time; having done so often already, he felt confident they did not intend to leave soon. Besides, her attention had lingered upon him more than usual this evening, and the strain was getting to him.

He made his way in the shadows until he was able to sag against the inner wall of the courtyard of his own home with relief. There was a certain ease that came with being within his own space, even if it was merely the expanse of cobblestone courtyard. Here, he was shielded on all sides from prying eyes. Here, he could be a little freer. He immediately let down his glamour, the weight lifting from his shoulders.

For two weeks, he had watched the woman from across the plaza. Her hair glinted gold, catching any bit of light. She seemed to smile easily at anything that caught her notice, and to any random passersby, undoubtedly, she seemed a happy young woman who accompanied her father as he played his violin. However, Erik had come to notice the tired, stretched skin around her blue eyes, the quick way the smile vanished when she thought no one noticed.

There was something hovering about this woman… something he saw inside himself.

"Christine."

Alone, he spoke her name aloud, let the crisp blend of consonants merge into the silky hiss, ending with a soft vowel that caused him to shudder with possibilities he long thought dormant.

He should stop going to see her; he knew he should stop. This woman had her own life, and he had his, whatever mess of undying years it might be. He knew the longer he lingered in one place, the more likely he would be _noticed._ And once he was noticed… well, that was how he had ended up in Paris long ago, was it not?

His chest ached. He rubbed at his breastbone with the pads of spindly fingers, which trembled when he then held them up to his face. Clenching a fist, he swept his way into the nearest door to his home, shouldering open the red wooden surface. His boots grittily clicked across the polished white stone flooring with his long strides as he made his way down the hallway.

"Darius!" he boomed.

The Persian man appeared at once. Cool, perceptive eyes swept over his thin frame. "Yes, maestro?"

Erik handed over his cloak and hat and began tugging off his gloves. "I need something to eat."

Darius raised an eyebrow. "To eat, maestro? Again?"

"Yes, again," Erik snapped. He could feel the shaking beginning to spread from his hands. He knew what would follow – weakness, dimmed vision, and eventually, unconsciousness. He did not want a repeat of last time, having to wake to a wrist of a stranger being shoved between his lips.

While Darius headed toward the kitchens, Erik marched to the dining hall. Few lamps had been lit, but neither of them needed much light to make their way around the estate. A small fire blazed in the hearth with just enough warmth to keep the place from freezing. The _hôtel particulier _was far too large for the two of them, but as one of the few free-standing buildings in Paris, it kept neighbors from intrusiveness.

Erik eased his aching body into the large armchair at the end of the table. The single place setting stared up at him mockingly; Darius never ate as he did. His home loomed large and empty around him. He stretched out his long legs and rested his wrists upon the table. He could not muster the energy to sift through the correspondence laid out for him, but he knew what it mostly was – more requests for gatherings he would never attend and editing notes from the latest production at the Palais Garnier, which he would see to at his own pace.

Darius returned, carrying a plate. "How much longer will you do this to yourself?" he asked, setting the plate in front of Erik.

Did it matter? Erik did not bother with a reply. Darius knew full well his history, knew far too much about _everything_.

He let his eyes slide to the plate before him. During moments like these, he was glad of his lack of nose, which dimmed his sense of smell. The slice of raw beef stank of dead animal. Even though the piece of meat was as fresh as possible, it was no suitable substitute for warm, living blood. His felt his fangs distend with hopeful throbbing, two sharp points on either side of his mouth, but they would serve no purpose here.

His fingers trembled as he picked up the knife and fork. He heard Darius swallow from somewhere behind him, and he ignored him, slicing into fat and sinew to carve off a bite. Then he forced the hunk of beef between his thin lips, nearly gagging as the concealed gore hit his tongue. Behind him, Darius retched.

Erik drove another bite down his throat. He needed what little energy this meat gave him. Whatever he could glean from this dead plasma might carry him through another day, another week. But when Darius stepped back and retched again, holding his sleeve to his nose, he could no longer stomach the putrid meat, his insides roiling in protest.

He tossed his knife and fork onto the table and shoved the plate away, sending it flying across the table. "Damn this existence! And damn every moment I choke down another bite. I cannot tolerate this meat any longer! I should sooner throw myself into the sunlight." He knew his yellow eyes were wide behind his mask, the panic of a half-starved creature. "Something – there must be _something_."

Darius came back to his side. "Maestro, I went to Lucas while you were away…"

"No." Erik drew back his head to stare at him. With Darius's shorter stature, they were of a height while he was sitting. Often, a mere glare could get the Iranian to back down, but putting enough heat into his eyes was difficult when he could feel himself losing control. He continued, "Every time you offer, my answer is the same – _no_."

Darius spread his hands, pleading. "If I but asked, he would come to you as he comes to me; you know this is true. He would do it if I asked. I've told him how I owe you my life."

He was hardly _alive_, was he? Erik held his tongue. Such petty words had already been said before. Darius had found a rare and lucky asset with Lucas. The young man was more than just a regular blood-meal to Darius, and Erik had felt more than one twinge of jealousy.

Darius said, "If you will not accept what he offers, then at least accept this." He thrust a vial onto the table, the green-tinted glass concealing what was within.

"Have you gone mad?"

"No, maestro, but I have become desperate to see you in better health. Were my master here…" He paused at this, then shook his head and gestured at the vial. "It is only a few swallows, and I mixed it with wine to slow the clotting." His lip curled, revealing a slight bit of fang. "It is a concoction that will likely taste as horrible as that flesh you gag upon, but there should be some strength in it, at least. Drink it. Please, maestro."

Chest heaving, Erik took up the small bottle and, before he could think too much upon his actions, uncorked it. Somewhat fresh blood hit his senses – not so much the scent of it as the otherworldly sense of what he truly held. Protected as it had been in Darius's pocket, it was still warm. Stolidly, he upturned the bottle and drank, finishing the small amount in two quick gulps. The wine had soured it, but Darius had been wrong: it was nowhere near as horrible as the beef had been.

At once, the trembling in his limbs ceased, and the ringing in his head cleared. As the blood hit his stomach, he felt life stir back into his thin body. Lucas's lifeblood that he had freely given, what little there had been, now flowed through Erik's veins. Erik both hated and relished the sensation, knowing it would not last long.

He also hated the relief upon Darius's face.

The chair scraped across the stone floor as he stood. His vision had recovered so much that he could see every individual speck of dust gathered on the curtains. …He might actually be able to focus upon his music enough to write tonight.

"Will that be all, maestro?"

"It will," he replied.

The two men began to part ways. Erik stepped to the far doorway, heading to the winding staircase that led underground. Then he paused, swinging back around. The fresh blood had brought a new energy within him, and this clarity had helped everything snap into focus within his mind.

It was time to pursue this new avenue he had already decided upon.

"Hold a moment," he said. "I do have a new task for you."

Darius halted midway through cleaning up the uneaten meal. "If you will continue to accept Lucas's blood, I will do almost anything."

The words were meant flippantly, but Darius should have known better than to relax about the topic of feeding around him.

Emboldened by that very blood, Erik bared his fangs. "Now is the time to hold yourself in check, young one. Many years have passed since I had the pleasure of a real fight."

Darius's dark eyes flashed. Despite their charade, their decades-long song and dance, Darius was no true servant. However, he had made a promise long ago, and Erik expected him to continue to fulfill it.

"As I said, I have a new task for you," he continued, allowing his lip to drift down, easing his hostility. "It will involve prolonged contact with humans, and as you have become so adept at blending within their numbers, your assistance is required. I need paperwork collected, among them a new certificate of birth drawn up for myself that fits within this century."

"A certificate of birth? Whatever for?"

"I wish to marry."

He waited for the fall-out, the confusion that quickly melted into disbelief. A myriad of expressions skittered across Darius's face before he settled upon horror.

"You can't be serious!" Darius swayed and gripped the back of a dining chair. "I expected many things, maestro, but not this."

"I have already decided. Once we have the necessary bookkeeping, you may contact the woman's father and make the arrangements."

Darius's eyes blew wide. "You_ are _serious about this! How… how can you possibly believe this reasonable, maestro? Never mind the logistics of it, the forgeries, the humans you yourself will have to meet in order to sign the papers. What about the woman herself? Will you tell her?"

"Of course not."

Darius shook his head. "Will you put her up somewhere? Expect to visit her from time to time? Enough contact with you, and she will figure out your dark secret. When you don't age, what will she think? When you don't eat!" He practically spat his next words: "What happens when she realizes that you can't give her chil – "

Erik was upon him at once, fisting the shorter man's lapels and shoving him against the wall. Lucas's blood had given him more than just clarity of sight. Even though Darius was better fed, Erik could easily rip him apart.

"You forget your place, Darius," he hissed. "No matter how long we have traveled together, no matter how long he has been gone, _you are not Daroga_."

Erik did not enjoy the hurt he saw flash across Darius's face, but he was not in the mood to placate. He released Darius's coat and spun on his heel, not worried about retaliation. As he left the dining hall, he spoke over his shoulder.

"Make the arrangements at once. And send my thanks to Lucas for the meal."


	3. Chapter 2: meet

**A bigger wait than I would have liked - my apologies! I hope I've made it clear how dark this story might indeed get eventually. We're starting with an M-rating this time, after all.  
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**This story is a new idea for me. I'd love to hear your thoughts!**

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**Chapter Two: Meet**

Over the next several days, Papa's cough worsened until he was unable to make the walk to the park. Christine had feebly offered to go alone, but it was obvious that a young woman could not be seen doing such a thing without a chaperone. Their meager savings dwindled, and on the third day of being unable to earn any money, Christine gave him the last of their stew, not telling him there was none for her.

She cleaned the pot, listening to Papa wring out a cough that seemed to never stop. He had already drunk numerous cups of tea, and he had not left his bed since yesterday. Nothing was helping anymore. When one cough bled into another, she dried her hands and hurried to his room.

"Papa!"

He was doubled over, face turned blood-red from the bombastic force of his cough. He could scarcely draw enough breath to continue the awful raspy noise. Christine rubbed his back in slow circles, trying to encourage his lungs to calm down. The attack lasted longer than any other, seconds stretching into minutes.

She could take no more. She pressed her mouth in a firm line. "I am going to find a doctor," she said, squeezing his hand. She moved toward the door, but he grabbed onto her skirt, stopping her. "Papa, you need help!"

He shook his head, his eyes red and watering. Finally, his lungs eased enough that he could take a sip of water. "No doctor," he wheezed. "No money."

Her own vision began to blur. "I will go begging in the streets if I have to before I let you go another day without seeing someone. I'll return as quickly as I can." She jerked her skirts free of his grasp and bolted away, not that he could follow in his condition.

Only a couple coins jangled in the small purse as Christine snatched it up and slid it into her pocket. Fastening her cloak at her throat, she ran out the door of their apartment and into the hallway. At this hour, she had no idea where she might find a doctor, especially in this neighborhood. She flew down the many flights of stairs, using for a moment upon the stoop at the bottom. Even as far as she was now from their apartment, she could still hear Papa's terrible cough, and this hastened her resolve to find _someone_, anyone, who might help.

The night air slapped against her cheeks. A brisk wind had been brewing since the afternoon, and it swirled through the narrow streets, whipping her loose, tangled curls about her face. The threat of rain had painted the sky an angry, overcast gray all day. Now, the street lamps barely cut into the damp darkness.

She peered down the narrow street in both directions, hoping to quickly find someone who could help. She could see no one around. No doubt the nasty turn in the weather had chased away any who might brave the night.

Panic threatened to overtake her, but she pushed it down. She clutched her cloak tighter about her shoulders and chose a direction, one she knew would eventually take her a tavern that stayed open late.

Lightning flashed across the tops of the tenements a few seconds before she felt the rumbling of thunder in the balls of her feet. An impending storm hastened toward Paris. "Hurry, Christine," she hissed to herself. The first droplets of water hit her forehead, warning of what was to come. Again, a surge of panic, one that this time caused her steps to quicken until her slippered feet slapped upon the wet cobblestone in quick, rhythmic alarm.

A flash of black at the corner of her vision caught her attention. A shadow even darker than the night backdrop appeared, sliding just barely into her notice. She skidded to a stop on the sidewalk, heart thumping wildly. She knew she looked as hysterical as she felt, standing there in the night with her hair unbound while an approaching thunderstorm whipped up around her.

She glanced over her shoulder back the way she had come. The street stretched between the two row buildings, fading into darkness like a tunnel. Somewhere, she could hear the rain beating against stone as it drew closer.

Christine turned back around to continue to the tavern. And drew up sharply.

A man stood before her, closing enough to touch if she reached out.

His height loomed head and shoulders above her, a thick black cloak curving around his wiry form. His long legs were clad in crisp black trousers and stood in a casual stance at odds with the gloved hands she saw clenched into fists at his sides. For some strange reason, one of her hands came up to press against the side of her neck – an unconscious gesture that later she would not remember doing.

She tilted back her head to stare up at him with wild, round eyes. A bone-white mask covered his face from his forehead to the thin set of his mouth.

A scream welled up inside of her, but the sound of his dulcet murmur caused her to swallow it down. Those thin lips parted, and she watched, entranced, as they formed the shape of her name.

"Christine."

Her own voice struggled out of her throat, rasping, "Do… I know you?"

He did not answer. At that moment, the pelting raindrops swirled into a downpour. She found herself hurled backward into the frame of a closed doorway, slamming against the concrete just enough for her to feel the impact but not hard enough to knock the wind from her. Her mind spun, trying to piece together how she had been in the street one moment and then against the building the next.

The man was still in front of her, uncomfortably close. One of his forearms rested just above her head, his cloak forming a black curtain between her and the street. He leaned in closer still, and the brim of his hat nearly covered the crown of her head.

He was… shielding her from the rain?

She tried to look up at him again, but he was too close, too tall, to see directly in such a position. Glimpses revealed to her the smooth, pale skin of his face… a marblesque facade different from the mask she thought she had seen earlier. Her eyes seemed at war with what her mind was telling her and what they were truly seeing. She shook her head against the confusion, her thoughts blurring together, difficult to keep straight.

"Monsieur," she tried again. "Do we know each other?"

Whether he heard her or not, he did not answer. He was still as concrete, his towering presence bent over her in careful precision to keep from touching her. Somewhere beyond the curve of their bodies, the rain continued heavily.

He spoke again, his voice sliding over her, rumbling from within his throat. "Your pulse is racing. You are frightened... of me? No, you were frightened before."

"M-Monsieur?"

Was he even speaking to her? His attention seemed elsewhere, but then his free hand lifted, and she watched as long fingers encased in white opera gloves reached out as though to touch a lock of her unruly hair.

She sucked in a quick spurt of air, feeling dizzy. "Excuse me, monsieur, but I must be going," she said, and she placed her own palm flat against his chest. Her own heart beat wildly, as he himself had somehow noticed, but he was a statue before her. In the small space between them, she could not even measure if he drew breath.

Her hand upon his chest seemed to rouse him from his thoughts, however. He jerked back his hand from her hair at the same time he straightened his other arm, his long fingers instead splaying across the stone at her back. A line of rain managed to edge past the hulk of his body and fell like icy stings upon her forehead.

Two golden eyes pivoted to stare down at her. His face shifted again, blurred. Christine blinked rapidly and tried to focus, and the white mask from earlier returned. Then his face returned to the pale smoothness it had been earlier – a perfectly formed face with narrow, long features. Her ears began to buzz, the same feeling she might have if she were about to fall unconscious. Maybe she was more tired than she had thought…

"Christine," he murmured again.

She felt the hairs along her arms rise to attention. What was it about this man that was causing such a strange reaction within her? She had felt this same uneasiness for the past few weeks whenever…

Her hand upon his chest pushed at him with greater insistence, but still he did not budge. She knew this man, recognized his clothes, his height, this same strangeness about his face. She recognized this feeling she had around him – of being held beneath water, of standing on the edge of a cliff, of the expectation of something _more._

"You're the man from the park," she said in a strangled whisper. "The man who has been watching Papa play every evening." And then, even more horrified: "You _followed_ us home."

Whatever had come over him earlier, he seemed to finally, truly, see her now. His honey-colored eyes swept over her. His face contained a neutral expression, carefully blanked, but his eyes… she felt like they took in her every detail.

His boot scraped against the road as he took a step closer again, the hulk of his shape once more blocking out the rain. Again, he dodged her question. "You will catch your death out here, either by chill or by knife. The streets of this neighborhood at night are no place for a woman."

She tilted her chin up at that. Suddenly, she remembered that she had no time to waste chatting with strangers. "My father is ill. I need to find someone to help him. If you will excuse me…"

When she tried to edge past him, his free hand shot out and clamped around her upper arm. His fingers were long enough to loop around the entirety of her arm, and his steely, cold grip might as well have been made of metal.

"You have accomplished your goal, mademoiselle," he said. "Go home to your father and leave the darkness to the monsters."

She swallowed hard. She wanted to argue further with him, but she had a feeling it would be useless. She had felt the strength of him beneath her palm, the unforgiving hardness of his hand holding her arm like a vice. And yet despite how frightened he made her feel, despite how confused she was by him, never once had she wondered if he would harm _her_.

"You will help me?" she asked, her surge of yearning unmasked.

"Within the half hour. I swear it. Go home… Christine."

She swallowed again, her throat running dry, her heart leaping at her name within that silky voice. Then she nodded, and with that, he released the grip on her arm and stepped back a pace. Scooting along the wall, she stepped around him, noticing how he pivoted to keep her in his line of view.

What was it about walking _away_ from the dark that could set one's blood aflame with panic? As a little girl, Christine had bolted whenever it was night, running from the room to her parents' bed or dashing up the stairs as though something might leap out of the darkness and nip at her heels. Again, she had the sensation of standing on the edge of a cliff, but she was not sure which way would cause her to fall.

Wrenching her eyes from the man in black, Christine fled.

Her father was still coughing when she flew back into the apartment, dripping rainwater upon the wooden floor. She toed off her sodden shoes, grabbed a towel for her hair, and knelt at his side.

"Someone is coming, Papa," she told him. "Just hold on a little longer." She rubbed his back and tried to help him focus on each breath that he could draw into his ragged lungs. Each breath in and out that she took with him served to also calm her own tensions.

Mere fifteen minutes later, a knock sounded on the door. Christine scrambled to her feet, opened the door, and found a rather short, stout man carrying a medical kit.

"M-May I help you, monsieur?" she asked, unable to keep the hope from her voice.

The man ducked his head within, looking about expectantly. "I am Dr. Martin. I was told there was an emergency."

Christine stepped back to let him in. "My father is sick with a chronic cough. Please, monsieur, if there is anything you can do to help him, we would both be at your service."

"Pardon me." He swept in confidently and went right to Charles. He closed the bedroom door behind him, but that was just as well. Christine was a bundle of enough nerves without having to watch the examination.

The next moments seem to stretch far too long. Finally, Dr. Martin removed himself from Papa's room. The glimpse Christine saw of her father found him resting in bed, his breathing more even than before, the blanket drawn to his chin.

"Doctor?"

Dr. Martin was busy setting some vials upon their small kitchen table. As he mixed and portioned medicine, he said, "Your father is quite ill, his coughing progressive. I am mixing a drachm of belladonna. He has already had a dose, but he can take a teaspoonful every two hours with perhaps one more if he cannot sleep tonight. I will return tomorrow evening to check him again."

"I am so grateful, monsieur." She wrung her hands. "I… I should freely admit that we don't have any way to pay you."

He gave her a shrewd look. "My wages have already been paid, and well enough to last the month! You shall be seeing a lot of me around from now on, Mademoiselle Daaé."

By that, she was stunned and could do little more than thank him profusely as he hurried from their apartment.

It was only later, when she undressed for bed, that she noticed her scant purse in her pocket had been joined by a second bag full of coin.

* * *

Erik moved with slower strides back toward his residence, now that he was certain the doctor had made his call. Moving across the neighborhood with such speed had cost him much of his energy.

Even though he had allowed Darius to provide him with a vial of Lucas's blood every day since the first sample, those few sips did little to appease the gnawing hunger in his belly. They merely staunched the shakiness that would return by the end of the night, slow the fatigue that would always settle about his limbs again.

How fortunate that he had drunk before venturing out to _her_ home tonight.

He had previously maintained enough distance from her to keep his sanity. The two weeks watching her as her father played the violin had sped by all too quickly. When they had stopped coming, his position near her had only changed – standing beneath her window rather than behind the tree.

He had thought to spend another night merely lurking in the shadows outside her apartment. He had not expected her to suddenly run outside, certainly not with the threat of a spring thunderstorm. Her hair had fanned behind her in golden curls, her face set with fierce determination. She was beautiful, but that thought had not lingered long in his mind.

The panic and fear had poured off her in waves, stirring the predator within him. He had pushed her against the building only half to protect her from the downpour – he had needed her to stop moving long enough for him to reign in his instincts to hunt. His fangs had pressed against his top lip, aching with the need to break her pale skin.

Her pulse had throbbed just beneath the surface of her throat. It would have been all too easily to succumb.

Her voice had drawn him back out again. She had been frightened before he arrived, a fact that aided him in calming down. While his behavior and presence did little to snuff those fears, he was not the root cause of them. After that, he had been able to deal with his instincts and shift himself properly into the moment.

At his side, his fingers spasmed in remembrance. For a moment, he had gripped her upper arms to hasten her against the building, felt her soft flesh give under his hold. For a moment, he had trapped her there with his hand upon her arm – too many times touching her without consequence. Over and over, he pictured himself removing his glove and feeling a spiral of golden curl between the pads of his fingertips. He truly might have been lost then.

He had stood too close to her, felt the heat of her living body. Now, he needed to _forget_.

His chest ached. He rubbed at it angrily, increased his pace. He couldn't go home just yet, not this on edge, not with Darius, with his constant questions, wondering why. During a night like this one, he met no one on the streets. Even if he had, they would have seen little more than a shadow, a vague glimpse in the rain easily forgotten.

Before he knew it, he stood outside the Palais Garnier.

Too long he had spent wasting beneath the walls of the opera house. Two decades ago, he had decided to abandon his underground home and live above. Only then had he realized how much being in the Palais had transformed him into the very monster he had once fought viciously to avoid becoming. He had spent less time cultivating his persona as a maestro and more upon terrorizing anyone who had disagreed with him.

Daroga had pulled him out of the mess he had made. He had cleaned up the stagehand's body, forged the death of the Phantom who had haunted those halls, and helped Erik establish himself as a new composer: Maestro Voclain – the renowned composer who lived a reclusive life on the other side of the city. In some bizarre way, it had worked.

When Daroga had left, Erik had clung to this new identity to avoid relapsing back into his old ways. Like the manner in which he now slid around the side of the Palais Garnier, a black eel unnoticed by all.

His old hidden side entrance still operated, despite its disuse for years. He slipped within the walls of the Palais Garnier like he had never left and found his way in the darkness without needing any light to see. His feet found the familiar pathways, working upon muscle memory, and before long, he stood near the back of the stage. The company was between productions, and his sharp ears caught the soft footfalls of ballet girls practicing their leaps.

The old woman dressed in black could have been one like him, if she had been so inclined. He had once offered it to her during a moment of weakness, when he had been mad at Daroga, mad at the _world_, and determined to seek attention elsewhere. He had never really been able to fully explain to her what he was, what exactly he offered. Somehow, she had known her dislike of it all the same. Her sharp tongue had cut him deeply. It had been the last time they had spoken face-to-face.

She had grown old since the time he had last been here. He let his foot fall upon a creak in the floor, and her head tilted sharply to the side, her ear catching the familiar sound.

Her cane thumped upon the stage. "Ten-minute break, mademoiselles! Stretch those calves!"

The ballet rats responded immediately. Twittering, eager for the break, they scuttled off the stage. Madame Giry smoothed her graying hair over one ear – not that any strand was out of place – seeming undisturbed that she was now alone with the Phantom who had once rained down so much terror here.

"You have a lot of nerve," she said, after a pregnant pause. "This is a direct violation of our agreement."

"Yes," he said. He stepped through a hidden panel along the side of the stage, staying hidden in the shadows where only she could see him.

Madame Giry half-turned, laying one critical eye upon him, thin arms folded. "The managers have no response for you yet. But I suppose this is not about whatever composition on which you are currently working?"

"It is not."

"You look well enough." Her gaze swept up and down his form. "Alive, at any rate."

"If you can call this living. And you, madame? Are you and yours well?"

"Do you actually care?" She puffed a sigh. "Perhaps you noticed that my little Meg is not one of the dancers here. She is to be married soon to a young man who can keep up with her. I suppose you could say they are in love, but in any case, we shall be leaving Paris by the end of the year. Leaving France altogether."

He nodded as though he had expected this. People moved on, people left. He was the one who was rooted to the same spot, stuck in the same loop, decade after decade.

"Were you going to tell me?" he asked more smoothly than he felt.

"In letter form, if nothing more."

The tension lay thickly between them, constricting his own throat. He turned as though to leave, cloak swirling about his legs.

The steel in her voice softened. "Why _are _you here, Erik?"

He continued to draw back, hating the new lilt he heard. Her anger he could stomach. Her pity… She called his name again, softer still. He stepped halfway back through the hidden panel. The urge to rip something apart was rising within him, and he could not angle that unjustly toward her, would not endanger her as he had in the past.

He would never tell her the true reason he had wanted to come here. That he had wanted to be reminded of the person he no longer was. That he had wanted to trade words with someone who _knew_ him. To be reminded that he still existed in this world. Everything and anything that would stir far too much pity.

Instead, he settled for a different source of conversation. It was too early to be asking this of her, but he did it anyway. "I hope to marry in the next several weeks."

Shock flitted across her lined face and was gone. She cleared her throat. "Oh?"

"The mademoiselle has no mother, no other family besides an ailing father. She will need… guidance… in ways I cannot give her."

"Erik-"

He swung back around, his arm cutting off the words he knew she wanted to say. "Whatever lingering disdain you have of me, would you at least set it aside for _her_? I am _asking_ for your assistance, madame – for her sake rather than mine."

A long moment passed during which she merely gazed at him. He forced himself to endure that hard pressure. He could have said more, could have explained himself more and what he wanted of Madame Giry's help. But he knew she understood. She understood all that he meant, and all that he was demanded of her. She would have to enter his life once more to help in such ways.

Finally, she nodded. "Send word when you are about to marry."

"Yes, madame."

He drew himself fully within the partition in the wall, pausing when she spoke again.

"I have two conditions for this agreement, Erik."

"Name them."

"Leave my daughter out of this." Her eyes narrowed, cutting him through the shadows. "And if you ever come here again, I will not hesitate to tell the authorities where you live."

Such threats from a _human_. His anger swirled around her, batting her black skirts about her ankles, causing her to widen her stance to balance against the onslaught. She did not back down in the wake of his rage, but he unleashed it all the same. It was with no small satisfaction that he saw perspiration begin to dot her brow, and in the end, she had to use her cane to steady herself.

His anger spun out, his point made. "Agreed," he said as the heaviness in the air dissipated. She was breathing audibly, quicker than before.

He left without another word.


	4. Chapter 3: ask

**I apologize for the very long wait. The end of the school year takes too much of my teacher-energy. BUT it's now summer break, and I'm hoping for a much quicker update schedule! I hope some of you are still interested in this fic - let me know what you think. :P  
**

* * *

**Chapter 3: Ask**

True to his word, Dr. Martin arrived the next evening armed with more remedies for Charles Daaé's terrible cough. The belladonna tincture had helped Papa relax enough for a few bouts of sleep, but in exchange, he had been plagued with nausea. He had not eaten anything all day; not even the fresh food Christine had bought with her mysterious bag of coin had encouraged his appetite. This alarmed Christine even more than the constant cough. She had watched her father's broad-shouldered form slowly thin over the last several months.

Christine told Dr. Martin as much. She ignored his brisk, dismissive nature toward her – he was a professional, after all. And she was nothing more than the young daughter of a poor violinist. No doubt Dr. Martin felt put-out by this sudden new charge, no matter what he was being paid. Well, she would put up with anything as long as he helped her father get well.

She watched the doctor grind mustard and mix it into a paste with warmed water. "Can I help?" she asked, wanting to be useful.

Dr. Martin spared her a glance. "He needs to be bare from the waist upward for the next hour. This would be a good time for you to send off this pile of linens to the cleaners, hmm?"

She nodded her head. "I will be back soon, Papa," she called into the other room.

The hallways were bustling with tenants – some returning from work, others hustling children into crowded rooms for late meals. The sun was just setting outside, streams of sunlight laying golden stripes across the shadows of the stairwell. Christine hurried to the tiny laundry on the bottom floor where the woman in charge there told her it would be a wait for the linens to be washed. Christine herself would have to hang them to dry on the wire stretched across the fireplace; there was too much rain this time of year to hang them outside.

While waiting, Christine stepped onto the stoop for some fresh air. After the rains yesterday, Parisians were eager to stretch their legs outside even now with night approaching. She knew everyone came with their own burdens and worries, but she liked to make up happy stories for the people she observed. That man walking alone carried roses for the woman he loved. The two women arm-in-arm were sisters going to visit their mother.

Though she did not want to admit this to herself, she searched the crowd for someone familiar as well… a certain man in black. She did not see him, and a wave of unexpected disappointment ran through her.

Once she had her armful of laundry, she went back upstairs and laid the pieces next to the fireplace so she could pin them up. Dr. Martin came out of her father's room, closing the door behind him.

"Are you religious folk, Mademoiselle Daaé?" Dr. Martin asked as he took off his glasses to wipe the lens.

"Y-Yes," she replied, a bit taken aback by the abrupt question. Her father more so than her, but she did not say this. "Why do you ask, monsieur?"

"My tonics might ease his cough and help him rest, but your father's condition will likely not improve with my medicine alone." He replaced his glasses and looked at her shrewdly. "I suggest prayer might be the most effective course of action."

Her father prayed every night for a multitude of things, but this also she did not say. She swallowed thickly. "Are you saying my father may not get better?"

"I am saying you need to be realistic with your expectations. And if you have a priest, it would be wise to have him visit soon."

Tears blurred her vision, but she managed to thank him for his time and see him to the door. Then she went back to her mundane tasks of hanging the laundry to dry and preparing a supper that Papa would not eat. She did not mention Dr. Martin's words to Papa, and if he had already heard them first-hand, he did not say.

Dr. Martin continued to arrive every evening, just as promised. With his treatments, Papa's cough eased, but Christine suspected that they were only treating the symptoms and not the root cause of his malaise. Even though Papa no longer had long-lasting coughing attacks, his energy had not returned, and he spent much of his time in bed. He had not been able to hold his violin since the last time they played in the park, and Christine caught him more than once looking at it longingly.

After about a week, Dr. Martin arrived again in the evening, but this time, he did not come alone.

Christine greeted him at the door, as usual, to help him carry in his supplies. She did not notice the young man standing behind him until she went to shut the door. His caramel-colored skin caught the light of their small fire and single lamp, his face clean-shaved. His dark eyes swept over Christine head to foot, and when they met hers, she was startled by the odd mixture of warmth and warning she saw there.

"Dr. Martin?" she inquired over her shoulder.

The doctor paused in laying out his supplies. "Have you not met? Monsieur Ardavan is the reason I am here after knocking on my door so abruptly a week ago."

The man at the door gave a small smile, flashing the edges of white teeth. "It was my master, actually, who asked me to find a doctor for Monsieur Daaé. He wished me to see how things were going with the good doctor and the violinist whose talent he admires."

"You can tell him Monsieur Daaé is doing as well as can be expected. Now, excuse me while I tend to my patient." Doctor Martin selected various vials and his bag and headed to Papa's room. Christine heard the usual greetings exchanged between the two men before the doctor closed the door behind him.

Christine swung her attention back to the young man – Monsieur Ardavan – at the door, her eyebrows drawing together. "Monsieur, you said your master sent you to find a doctor for my father?"

"Yes, he did. I have heard much about you and your father." He paused here, looking down at his feet. The toes of his boots barely brushed the edge of the door threshold. The smile never slipped from his face as he asked, "May I come in?"

"O-of course," Christine said, flushing in embarrassment. How rude she had been to have a conversation with him through the doorway! Her hesitation was unfounded; he had done nothing but be polite toward her.

His shoulders seemed to relax as he stepped inside. "Thank you, mademoiselle."

"Your _master_, Monsieur Ardavan?" she repeated, trying to steer the conversation back to her question.

"Call me Darius, please. I much prefer it. And yes, he is the one who heard that your father needed help. I am only doing his bidding by being here."

Now that he was in the room, Christine could see that he was rather short for a man, especially once he politely took off his hat. He wore a trim gray suit, the style old-fashioned for someone so young. He spoke perfect French, but his accent was thick; he was not a native Frenchman. His dark eyes never strayed long from her, but they danced around the room, taking in everything. When he stepped further inside, she caught a wrinkle of his nose. A look of disgust flitted across his smooth face, and he covered it with a cough.

Christine would not be put off by the lack of information. "I should like to know to whom I can direct my thanks."

"I can see why he is so taken with you," Darius said quietly, giving her his full attention for a moment. "I suppose he knew what he was doing, sending me here in person. Did you look at him with that kind of determination?"

"_Who_, monsieur? You have yet to give me a name."

"You will learn it soon enough." He pulled a small bag from his jacket pocket and set it upon the kitchen table. Coins clinked together from within. "In case your other funds are running short."

Christine opened the bag, eyes widening. She had scarcely spent a quarter of what she had been given last time. "He gives me two month's wages, and yet you will not give me his name!"

He gave an easy shrug. "Is it that much? I am pleased that you spend so frugally, mademoiselle."

"Does your master dress all in black?" she asked determinedly, raising her chin. "Is your master fond of lurking around at night? Does he wear a mask upon his face?"

Darius's eyebrows shot upward with clear surprise. "You have seen him – truly seen him."

"I have _met_ him."

Darius took a step closer to her. "Then you understand very well why you should stop asking questions. You speak well enough with your head, but not at all with your heart. That will serve you well in the beginning, mademoiselle, but you must not ignore when your head and your heart try to reason with each other."

She flushed again, but this time her embarrassment was tinged with anger. "Pardon me, but you do not know me, monsieur."

"I think I know enough now." His eyes snapped to Papa's bedroom door a moment before Dr. Martin opened it. "Excuse me while I speak to your father."

He left her open-mouthed, her retort one that she swallowed down as Dr. Martin came back into the room. Darius closed the door behind him as she heard him greet her father, a move she saw as deliberately shutting her out. Dr. Martin spoke to her about her father's condition, which had no new changes, and then she was left alone.

She did not have to wait long. Darius swept out of her father's room. He headed toward the door to leave, placing his hat back atop his black hair. He again flashed her that careful white smile, but she saw the handkerchief in his hand, held as though he had just been covering his nose.

He paused at the door. "Will we see each other again soon, mademoiselle?"

She stared at him. "Will we?"

One more small smile, and he was gone.

Christine locked the door – a move she would have done for anyone, but one that she felt especially important now. Then she hurried to Papa's room. He lay propped up by pillows, breathing relatively easily, the remnants of a mustard poultice lying in crumbled bits in the trash.

He was reading through several documents which were laid out across his lap.

His blue eyes seemed watery, as though he was on the verge of tears. "Come here, my darling," he said, extending a hand.

She took it, his large palm warm against hers, perhaps a bit too warm. "What is it, Papa?"

Charles read some more, then removed his spectacles and squeezed her hand tightly. "An offer for your hand."

"My hand?" She snatched hers from his, a reflex she could not stop. "What do you mean?"

He looked at her steadily. "Your hand in marriage, Christine."

_In marriage. In marriage_. _Her hand in marriage._ The words echoed within her head over and over, her mind trying to make sense of them. That man – Darius Ardavan – had given these papers to her father, papers asking for her hand in marriage. He had known his purpose when he had come to her home. He had not only been here to see the doctor in action.

"Monsieur Ardavan's master," she whispered.

"My darling girl," Papa said, reaching out to take her hand again as though he feared she would run off. "I never thought this day would come."

"What day?" She felt stunned, her mind spinning, her thoughts floating somewhere above where her body sat on the edge of his bed. _My hand in marriage._

"The day I would see a future in which you are married, and I can rest in peace. The man responsible for paying for Dr. Martin's services has expressed his interest in marrying you."

Her voice answered him, a flat murmur that sounded disconnected from the turmoil inside her. "Monsieur Ardavan's master wants to marry me?"

"As it is stated here." Papa pushed the marriage proposal into her other hand, but she could not grasp it. "From all the assets he has listed here, he is certainly a man of means."

"He must be wealthy," she said, "to be able to pay for not only your doctor but our daily lives. He must be wealthy enough to feel as though he can buy me as well."

"Daughter mine-"

"No, Papa." She jerked her hand from his, standing. "My answer is no."

She hated the look in her father's eyes. "Christine, it is not your choice to make."

"If it is not _my_ choice, then whose is it?" She hated the way her voice rose, the shrillness of panic she heard there.

Charles pushed himself more upright in bed. "He is a renowned composer, a wealthy man with a box at the opera and a manor in Paris. You could do so much worse-"

"I don't even know him!"

"But you _will_. Christine, you can't ignore the good fortune behind this. You can't ignore the reality that we are both facing!"

Tears broke through her, streaming down her cheeks. "What reality is that, Papa?"

"That I am dying, my darling girl."

She felt as though she could not breathe. Her chest rose up and down; her limbs felt light, their edges fuzzy. "But Dr. Martin… his medicines have eased your cough." It was the lie she had told herself, but she had already known the truth.

Papa's large, warm hand cupped her face, his thumb brushing the rivulet of tears there. "How can I leave this earth without knowing you will be cared for? I want so badly to see your mother again, but I need to know that you are safe."

"Marrying me to a man I have never met – how could that possibly bring you happiness?" She could not, would not, tell her father about the fact that she _had_ met this man before. Papa would press too much for details, and while her heart ached at the very consideration of marriage, she could not willingly sabotage. A not so small part of her wanted to see this man again, to both thank him and tell him off.

"You will meet him first, of course. I could never do that to you, Christine. But you need to prepare yourself for this marriage to go forward."

She pulled free of him and scrubbed her sleeve across her face. "I need to go hang the wet laundry."

"Christine…"

"Not another word, Papa. I can't bear it."

He pressed his lips together and only nodded. Christine ducked out of the room. She had not bothered reading the marriage proposal, having no interest in learning about this man's assets – how much money he possessed, what property he owned, what business ventures he had started. Only after she had pinned up most of the clothes did she realize that the man's name had probably been on the documents, but she could not go back into father's room now, not while he wanted to have further discussion.

Marriage. It was a thought that had barely ever entered her mind. After Mama had passed away when Christine was a little girl, her family had shrunk to just her and Papa, and she had naively thought that was the way it would always be between them.

Charles refused dinner again that night and went to bed early. The sounds of his soft snores carried her through the evening, a constant reassurance of life. Christine sat near the single window and sipped her tea.

_"I am dying, darling girl."_

How could she even consider a life without Papa? Since her mother had passed away, the two of them had been a pair, partners, traveling the countryside as Charles searched for work. She could hardly shift her thoughts to anything different from the reality that had been her life for years.

Christine washed out her cup and tiptoed into Papa's room, taking the envelope from his bedside table and returning to her perch by the window. She thumbed open the documents and searched until she found the name of her intended.

* * *

Erik Voclain.

It had been easy enough to choose his surname this time. It was always something vaguely French to avoid those sorts of questions, and he kept a stockpile of identities should the need arose to quickly disappear. He had changed some twenty years ago after those nasty incidents at the opera house. No one bothered Voclain the eccentric composer that no one had ever seen. He was as forgettable as a whimsy.

The _Erik_, on the other hand, had haunted him throughout his lifetime. He never knew the name with which he had been born, had never cared enough to deduce such an item, and _Erik_ had been plucked from the very air, a name heard on someone's lips during a moment in his childhood. It had stuck within his memory after that, and the first time someone had asked for his name, _Erik_ was the one he gave.

Erik Voclain. The men and women who knew him for _him_ called him merely Erik, and the name would have to do for eternity now. He had grown too used to it. But it was Erik Voclain that Darius had drafted onto the papers to place into Charles Daaé's hands, and Erik Voclain was the name that she would know before they met.

Of course, he had been there when Darius had delivered his proposal, standing across the street, unnoticed as usual by any passersby. He spent more time than he would like to admit beneath her window, watching over her.

Which meant he saw when she sat by the window and read Erik Voclain's request for her hand in marriage. The glass panel had been pushed open to let in the cooler night air, which was thought to ease coughing. Any human would not have heard his name uttered from her perfect white throat, but he did – he was not human, after all.

She read his name upon the paper, said it aloud, her full lips forming the sounds, her voice a whisper. He did not need to breathe, but he sucked in a deep breath anyway and shuddered it out just as quickly. This hold she had on him… He felt the edge of a lengthened fang with the tip of his tongue.

The woman in the window read through the papers and then set them aside. When she began to weep, he clamped his thin lips tightly across his fangs and fled.

In the days that passed after Darius delivered the proposal, Erik did little more than pace the floors of his estate. Madame Giry had brought him notes on his latest piece of opera drivel, but he was too distracted to bother to focus upon his work – not his usual ethic.

He and Darius had avoided each other in mutual agreement that their opinions on this matter varied. Although Erik wanted to pepper Darius with questions after visiting the Daaé residence, he refrained. He would learn all he wanted about this young woman soon enough. He also could not banish the image of her freely-flowing tears from his mind, and he needed no comments from Darius to add to his misery.

"You will wear out the carpet in that corner."

Erik cut his eyes over to his butler, halting his stride. "If you are here, I assume you have news?"

"I do." Darius did not shy away from Erik's steely gaze; he rarely did, a skill Daroga had taught him well. "A letter arrived from the Daaes."

"_Give it._"

Darius obliged, placing the small card-sized envelope into Erik's bony, outstretched hand. "The stench was nearly unbearable."

Erik ignored him, sliding a finger into the corner of the envelope and slicing the seal. He read, eyes quickly finding the words he wanted.

"You knew, didn't you?" Darius continued. "You must have, if you saw them perform at the park."

"Her father has agreed to the match."

"_Maestro_."

Erik landed blazing yellow eyes upon him. "What do you want to hear, Darius? Yes, I knew immediately that her father would not live past the year's end. Yes, I knew this increased my chances of making this match successful. I do not, however, need your opinion about such things."

"Perhaps if you waited until Master Khan returned…"

"_If_ he is returning!" Erik swung an angry arm. "Daroga has never been gone for this length of time without sending word that he is alive. Perhaps you should start reconciling with the idea that he may never return."

Darius's head dipped down into shadow. When he raised it again, his eyes were bright and fierce. "Do you wish for me to arrange for your bride to make a formal visit?"

"Do so," Erik said thickly.

Darius strode from the room. As soon as he thought he could walk without trembling, Erik headed through the long halls to the tower. A small door here opened only with a key he carried, and he locked it behind him as he stepped onto the landing before a spiral of stairs dropping into darkness.

He did not need light to make his way downward, and he had no want to see the details of his rooms. He could see well enough in the dark, but here beneath layers of stone and soil was true darkness, the total absence of light. Down he traveled until he reached the floor that stretched from the last step. He sat heavily upon the piano bench, his elbow striking a discordant note upon the keys until he closed the lid.

Here, truly alone, he removed his mask and set it beside him on the bench. His unsteady hands cupped his ruin of a face, blunt fingernails digging into the edges of his forehead where his hairline might be if he possessed more than these sparse strands.

His goal had been achieved. The woman he desired would be his if he could dance this final tempo. And yet her tears flashed behind his clenched eyelids over and over again. What did he have to offer her to banish them?

"Daroga," he moaned aloud to the empty room, "I will never forgive you if you are truly dead."

* * *

**Gah, I'm so excited about the next chapter...**


	5. Chapter 4: enter

**Remember me? This was a much longer wait than I wanted, but I hope the longer chapter makes up for it. :)**

* * *

**Chapter 4: enter**

The tenements of Paris were truly horrific places.

The dredges of society, the poor and the ill, converged to live on top of each other, sandwiched in metaphorical cages like chickens off to the slaughterhouse. The floors were stacked closely together, the hallways severe, and the only windows were a choice few on the outside walls that faced the dirty streets. The narrow courtyards were strung with lines of dripping clothing, often found white with frost in the morning.

Such living conditions could hardly even be called living. With the lack of basic resources and the abundance of highly contagious diseases, these humans were merely waiting to die.

If Erik had been the sort of predator that hunted, he would have obliged here. Since he had not actively sought prey in decades, he had avoided the tenements where humans often begged for death.

At least, he had avoided them until now.

With Darius's aid, he had submitted his proposal of marriage to the young woman's father, and in return, he had gotten a favorable reply. Erik knew this was at the behest of the father and not the daughter, for she had not smiled in the few days that had followed. Still, he persisted, resolved as ever to make her his. If he could have eschewed protocol, he would have married her as soon as the father signed the agreement.

But there _was_ a protocol to follow, and if he did not want to attract more attention than he already would seeking this marriage, he would have to adhere to it.

Madame Giry's reply to his message had been tart, but she had done as she had promised. As soon as she had escorted Christine from the premises, he had swept into the dark stairway, the father's invitation enough to at least allow him this far. He met no one in the hall, which was well enough by him, needing no extra strain on his glamour.

He needed to save the full scope of his strength for Charles Daaé.

He knocked on the door promptly one minute before their scheduled meeting.

Darius had offered two vials of Lucas's lifeblood as soon as darkness had fallen enough for him to cross Paris. He had spent the span of another day with the young human, taking more risks that Erik should be allowing. But Erik had swallowed both morsels without comment, knowing he needed their clarity and capability for tonight.

He tugged at the hem of his cream-colored waistcoat and straightened his cuffs, uncomfortable in the stiff new suit he had bought for this occasion. He lifted his hand and knocked again.

"A moment, please," came the raspy voice from within.

His keen hearing caught shuffling footsteps. Then the door opened to Charles Daaé, Christine's father, the violinist who had first drawn him out of his home all those weeks ago. The man had clearly made effort in dressing, but his brown suit was wrinkled from sitting too long, and his shoes needed polishing. The apartment had been scrubbed clean, the scent sharp even to Erik's dimmed sense of smell.

All of this he took in during one sweep of his golden eyes before alighting on the man in front of him. "Good evening, monsieur," he said. "I am Erik Voclain."

"Ah, Charles Daaé," the man introduced himself, reaching out with a welcoming hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Voclain. Please, come in."

The handshake was dry and solid, if a touch too warm. Erik stepped across the threshold, invited as he was. He felt two emotions then, swiftly felt and then gone just as quickly.

First, anger surged forward. Erik had seen many places in his life and the times that had come after, and he was not unused to such squalor. But to think that Christine had been living under such conditions… The girl had no bedroom of her own, her clothing new and old in neat stacks somewhat hidden behind the lumpy sofa. The furnace gave out less heat than the fireplace. The kitchen had no running water of its own.

At once, he wanted to swoop her away from Madame Giry and see that for the rest of her life, she wanted for nothing.

Secondly, _relief_ made his shoulders lose a bit of their tension; the bloodmeal this evening had worked as intended. Even though this man standing before him was weak with sickness and far too welcoming, Erik's fangs stayed firmly within his gums. Even with his anger at things beyond his current control, he did not lash out.

It was… progress.

He ensured yet again that his glamour was brightly burning, his mask cleverly hidden beneath another one of smooth, pale skin free of blemish. He could not maintain it at this level and closeness to a human for long. He would need to move quickly to convince this man to give his daughter over.

He stepped inside the apartment and closed the door behind him.

"The pleasure is mine, Monsieur Daaé."

* * *

Christine's hands clutched each other; she feared they might shake if she did not keep them firmly in her lap. The older woman next to her on the carriage bench had said nothing beyond her name and where they were going. She was Antoinette Giry, and they were on their way to a dress shop in one of the wealthiest parts of Paris.

While her father met the man who wanted to marry her.

"We have much work to do."

Christine roused herself from her thoughts, feeling such relief at being pulled into any conversation to break the uncomfortable silence. "Work, madame?"

"We can't have the maestro's wife dressed in rags, can we? Or her hair and skin in such poor condition." Madame Giry cut her eyes at Christine, noticeable in the dim light of the lantern hooked upon the door of the carriage. "At least your posture is decent."

Christine swallowed hard. "I have a background in music, madame. Posture is important."

That earned her another slicing glance. "Yes, it is. What sort of music background do you have?"

"Ah, n-nothing professional. My father plays the violin and my mother sang. She taught me a lot before she passed away." Christine squeezed her hands tighter together, knowing they were white-knuckled under her threadbare gloves. "You called him _maestro_?"

Giry shook her head. "Any questions about Monsieur Voclain will have to be directed toward him directly. He asked me to see to your needs, and so thus I am here. Beyond that, I have no directive and certainly no obligation."

"I-I understand, madame," Christine said obediently, but inside, her thoughts were spinning anew. The moniker of maestro was an interesting one indeed, and not one she had heard before about her suitor. She turned her attention back to Giry's comment about her state of dress. "Are new clothes truly necessary?"

"Your hem is too high, and your bodice is too tight. I daresay you haven't bought a new gown in years, and certainly not since you became a proper woman."

Christine flushed with shame. She already knew these things, but she had hardly possessed the money before now, had she? "I wouldn't want to embarrass Monsieur Voclain."

Giry gave her a sharp look. This woman could say much with merely a glance. "Erik is hardly one to care about such things in that manner. No, girl, this is about having respect in yourself and your own appearance. Here you have an opportunity to choose some clothing of your liking that fits you properly – appreciate the experience."

"Yes, madame," Christine said, mollified.

She had never given herself much thought before, her attention focused much more upon her father or their daily needs to survive. But now, as the carriage pulled to a stop outside the dress shop, Christine stepped out noticing what she had ignored before. Her hem _did_ come a touch too high upon her ankle, and she knew from the discomfort that her corset no longer fit her womanly figure.

A bit of her tension eased. This was not about dressing her up in finery to impress her suitor. This was about finding her own pride in what she wore. About taking care of _herself_ for once.

She followed Madame Giry inside the shop where two women had clearly been waiting for them to arrive. The next hour was filled with discussions of fabrics and styles, of trying on item after item, of measurements taken and retaken. Christine lost count of how many garments Giry ordered made. By the end of it, the trio of woman tallied off five gowns – two of which were for evening – eight nightgowns of various gauze-like materials, and eight sets of underclothes including three corsets. The total also included matching slippers, hats, gloves, and other accessories.

The total cost made Christine nearly choke upon the tea she had been offered. "I-I couldn't possibly…" she began.

Madame Giry thrust her waking cane to the floor. "Monsieur Voclain gave you funds already, did he not?"

Christine colored. "He did, ample enough, but I have been… shoring them away. Just in case." In case Papa grew worse. In case the furnace broke down again. In case their benefactor suddenly decided to stop giving… "To use all of that money to purchase things only for myself would be difficult."

Giry only sighed and turned to one of the women, the other quick at work tailoring a ready-made gown they had purchased. "Half now, my dear lady, and half when the items are delivered."

"Of course, madame," the seamstress replied. "Margie is almost finished with the first dress now – would she like to wear it home?"

"Heavens no. We wouldn't want to smudge it before tomorrow, would we?"

Dressed back in her own clothes, she was more aware than ever of her usual drab appearance. One of the ladies spent the last bit of time they had showing Christine how to pin up her tangle of hair like a true lady and how adjust her new hat to suit her hairstyle and the angle of her head. She left with a small assortment of lotions and hair tonics to restore some luster to her skin and hair.

Christine thanked the woman profusely for their handiwork. When she and Giry were back in the carriage, she ventured to ask, "What is tomorrow, madame?" She almost did not want to know.

Giry smoothed back her graying black hair at her temple, ever elegant. "Why, the day you meet your intended, of course."

* * *

Christine paused at the door to the apartment when she noticed her father sitting on the sofa. He had been abed for so many days that the sight took her aback. Even more so, she was surprised when he rose to help her with her packages.

"I can manage, Papa," she said as he took the stack of large boxes from her arms.

He smiled easily at her. "I know you can, dearest. Let me help you anyway." He set them on the kitchen table, then stepped back to admire the pile. "It seems you had a successful shopping trip."

"I did." The talk of purchases for herself always made her feel uncomfortable, but he seemed so pleased at the sight that she indulged him. "It is a new gown. I… ordered several more that will be delivered later. I hope to soon get to a men's shop to order you some clothes as well."

He waved off the idea. "Don't worry about me, Lotte. I can't tell you how happy it makes me to see you provided for."

She forced her own smile. "I shall model it for you tomorrow."

"Perfect."

"How did the visit go?" She hoped her tone was as casual as she tried to force it to be; inside, her stomach roiled with nerves.

"Well, I think. Voclain was most polite. Ever the gentleman. He didn't drink the brandy I offered him, but he was most pleasant otherwise." Her father's brown eyes lit up with mischievousness she had not seen in weeks. "I could share quite a lot about his background and what he does for a living, but I don't want to spoil the discovery for you."

Christine clicked her tongue at him, playing along. "You and Madame Giry both have your secrets. Is there nothing you will tell me?"

"Oh, he is tall," Charles said, wagging his eyebrows at her. "Quite thin and pale, but not overly so. You can report to me tomorrow about your opinion of his appearance, but he had fine enough features. A long, straight nose. Nothing out of the ordinary. Handsome enough for my daughter, I think?"

"Papa!" she said, nudging him with her shoulder. "You shouldn't talk of such things."

"I guess not." A cough wheezed out of him, cutting off his laugh. She missed his carefree spirit so much, the banter they used to have between them.

"We should get you to bed," she said, putting an arm around his waist to help him. He acquiesced without any protest, another worrying sign. How had they come to this moment of daughter helping father in such a way? The doctor's awful words echoed in her mind, followed swiftly by her father's own blunt acceptance of his fate.

Her world was spiraling beyond her control.

"Thank you, daughter," Charles said. He eased back to the pillows, and Christine knew he would be asleep within moments. Dr. Martin's tonics had at least helped with her father's rest.

The next day progressed much as the others had. Christine cooked meals and did laundry and saw to her father's comforts whenever needed. Dr. Martin paid them his usual visit, and though he did not say much to Christine, the firm set of his mouth told her everything she needed to know.

As she brought her father soup, he caught her around the wrist. "Shouldn't you be getting dressed soon, Lotte? It is nearly seven."

The words stuck in her throat, but they must have been all over her expression because Charles tugged her down and looped his free arm around her shoulders, giving her a tight hug.

"My strong, my darling," he said in her ear. "You can do this. You _must_ do this."

Her throat closed even more. "Yes, Papa," she managed to choke out. He released her, and she hurried off before he could say anything more, closing the door behind her for privacy's sake.

The box from the dress shop yesterday lay on one of the chairs, its rectangular shape and promises within waiting expectantly for her. She remembered Madame Giry giving her directions on what to expect of today – Monsieur Voclain's butler, Darius Ardavan, would come to pick her up at 7:30, and she must not keep him waiting. It would be a fifteen-minute carriage ride to Voclain's manor. She would spend no more than one proper hour there before being escorted back home by Monsieur Ardavan. When Christine had asked if Madame Giry would be accompanying her, she earned a snort and biting remark.

"The ballerinas at the opera will hardly improve by themselves."

It was a statement that had opened all sorts of questions, which had Christine biting her tongue to remain silent. Did unmarried women normally attend to unmarried men at night? And why must she go to his home in the evening rather than brunch or afternoon tea?

Christine did up her own corset the best she could, the fit so much better than her old one, and slipped into the rest of her layers. The gown fell in satin waves of green and blue with intricate detailing in gold thread. Her bodice covered her to the wrist and came high on the back of the neck, leaving a triangle of bare skin at her collar. She pinned up her unruly curls the best she could in the oval mirror hanging near the door.

She was placing the last of the pins in her matching hat when there was a knock on the door. It was Darius, his black hair carefully combed, the scruff of a mustache on his upper lip. He removed his hat and gave her a slight bow in welcome.

"Good evening, mademoiselle."

"Good evening, Monsieur Ardavan. I am almost ready."

"Darius, remember?" He stepped inside, lips tilting up in a smile. "Is your father presentable? I would like to say hello."

"He is."

Darius strode to the back room while Christine finished fixing her hat. She tugged on her new gloves as she followed him, her stiff shoes making unfamiliar hard clunks upon the wooden floor.

The men exchanged greetings and handshakes. Charles's face lit up as he saw her.

"Stop, Papa," she said, bending down to kiss his forehead.

His voice was hoarse as he spoke. "I only wish your mother could see what a beautiful woman you have grown into."

"So do I."

There had once been talk of heaven, of seeing Mama again once their lives here were over. Christine was not certain when those words had faded away. Perhaps when they had moved to Paris and their struggles had truly begun with Papa's cough. She could not bring herself to say them now, but she had heard Papa praying more every evening since Dr. Martin had told them he would not recover.

She squeezed his hand, but she did not linger, knowing tears were just at the surface. "I will be back soon."

"Good night, Monsieur Daaé," Darius said. He replaced his hat atop his perfect head of black hair.

Not much was said between them as they made their way down the several flights of stairs to the black carriage waiting at the curb. Christine did not know what to make of Darius Ardavan, the butler of her suitor. He seemed friendly enough, and while he smiled easily, she had not missed the quick way the smile had slipped from his face when he had turned from her or her father. His niceness seemed more the _impression _of politeness, given easily but not truly meant.

This unsettled her, now that she had noticed it. He opened the carriage door for her, still the model gentleman, or perhaps just a butler doing his job, but she thanked him either way. He paused and opened the door a crack to peer within another moment. His face was cast in deep shadows from the single lantern hanging outside her small window.

"Nervous, mademoiselle?"

"A little," she admitted. She gave her own thin smile. "Perhaps more than a little."

"If it helps, he is likely just as nervous as you are."

That did make her laugh, genuinely. "That does, thank you."

"Just don't tell him I said so. I wish to keep my position. And my head." With that, he hopped down from the step and climbed up to the front to drive the pair of horses.

It was that sort of thing, not knowing if he was serious or not, that set her on edge.

The carriage rolled forward. Christine moved the curtains aside so she could peer beyond the glass. She saw few pedestrians and only two other carriages; this particular night was dark with more rain threatening. Her father had not questioned why this meeting must be in the evening, the time long past for polite tea. She knew dinner for the wealthy was often served this late or even later, but there had been no mention of such food from anyone.

The carriage roll to a stop, and Darius helped her down with a surprisingly strong grip. She had thought him young at first, not much older than her, but she doubted that first impression now.

"Here we are," he said. "Let's get you in quickly before it starts to rain."

She had to take care with her train not to trip on the carriage's steps, but once she was on the ground, she took in her surroundings. Darius had pulled them into a large private courtyard surrounded by the walls of Voclain's manor house, three or four stories high made of pale stone, only the archway through which they had traveled having no rooms above it. The black-shingled roof ascended in steep spirals high above her, a medieval gothic style unique to Paris. The sheer size of this place made her eyes widen, and she had wondered how much larger it would look in the daylight when parts of it did not vanish into the darkness.

Oil lamps dotted the courtyard, giving her enough light to see the red trim around the windows, and the red wooden door through which Darius was about to usher her. She could see that only a few windows were glowing from lights within the rooms, but when Darius pulled open the large red door, light spilled forth.

Her new shoes clicked upon the polished marble floor as she stepped inside, Darius closing the door behind them, and she could not help but gape at her surroundings. Stone walls rose around her, much the same light color as the outside, the ceiling plunging upwards and disappearing into darkness above her. A plush rug with intricate thread in red and gold covered much of the entryway.

Darius gestured for her cape, and she allowed him to take both it and her gloves. "He is waiting in the western drawing room. I lit a large fire in there for you to warm yourself. I know this place is drafty."

Christine had not even noticed she was shivering, but she was, tremors wracking her small frame. Had it even been that chilly outside?

"The stairs are to your right. The drawing room is through the first doorway you see."

For all the oddness that surrounded Darius, she did wish he would escort her upstairs. The thought of walking up those massive stone steps alone made her shivering intensify.

Darius placed her cape and gloves near the door. "I will make tea, yes?" he said, already sweeping down a hallway in the opposite direction. "You will want tea?"

"Yes, please." That might help, having something to do with her hands. For now, she fisted one in her heavy skirts and lifted the front of the hem to start her ascent. The other she placed on the wide berth of the railing, the stone cold under her bare hand. Everything in this manor seemed overly large and overdone, and walking up the stairs with each laden footstep made her feel incredibly small. The urge to bolt rose and she shoved it down.

At the top of the stairs, double doors stood tall to the right. The rest of the second floor faded into gloom, but one of the double doors was open and light flickered into the hallway. Christine's shoes sounded too loud on the stone floor as she approached the open door.

She had expected another massive room, but this drawing room was smaller, more intimate. Thick carpets in red and cream covered most of the floor, dulling the sound of her footsteps. To the left, away from the windows, rested a baby grand piano in gleaming black. At the far end, a fire blazed hotly in the hearth. A red lounge was on one side of the fireplace, with several matching armchairs on the other.

A man stood near one of the long windows, his black silhouette a stark contrast with the heavy drawn curtains in a dark cream color. He turned when she entered the room, but she had known before he had turned that this was the same man who had stopped her on the street those weeks ago, the same man who had found and paid for Dr. Martin, the same man who had watched her Papa perform in the gardens.

He was dressed much the same as he had been that rainy night. His black suit was tailored impeccably, and he wore a waistcoat in ivory instead of black. His massive cape was missing, of course being indoors as they were, but this did not make his form seem less imposing without the bulk. He still stood head and shoulders above her slight height, his body far larger than hers. He wore no hat now, and his hair was as dark as his suit, carefully combed from his narrow-featured face.

The mask was gone.

She knew he had worn a mask before, knew it with all her being. Darius had even confirmed its existence when she had thrown out the comment and gotten a reaction. So why did she see only smooth skin and narrow features that conveyed little emotion?

Honeyed eyes swept over her appearance. Then he reached out with a white-gloved hand. "Welcome, Christine."

Oh, that baritone rumble. She remembered that voice well. She remembered the sound of her name upon his lips.

"Good evening, monsieur," she said, and her voice was trembling as much as her frame.

His hand did not waver, outstretched as it was, and so she stepped closer and closer still until she could slip her own into his. His long fingers curled over the entirety of hers. She could feel no heat through his fine kidskin glove, but perhaps the fabric prevented it. She dropped into a curtsy as he bowed at the waist over her hand, a formal greeting between two people about to discuss marriage.

She swallowed, suddenly unsteady upon her feet. Marriage. She had almost forgotten the reason she was here.

"You are trembling," he said. "Are you cold? Come stand by the fire." He drew her over to the hearth, keeping her between him and the fire, which now was a comforting warmth at her back and side. "I trust your trip here with Darius was uneventful."

"Yes, monsieur. Darius was a good escort." He had not yet let go of her hand, but when her gaze shifted to notice this, he let go immediately, taking a few steps back from her. Her hands went to clutch at each other, pressed against the upper folds of her skirts. The shaking had not eased.

She tried on a slight smile, wanting to see friendly. "I wanted to thank you for what you have done for my family. Dr. Martin is amazing, and my father is finally able to sleep again and speak at least a little without coughing."

"I heard his prognosis is not positive."

"I, well, no." A lump formed in her throat. She was already thrown off by her unceasing shaking and by the blurriness that had formed in her mind when she had entered this room. Whenever she tried to glance up from the carpet, to look upon him as one must do when being polite, she found her concentration lagging. She could not handle discussion about her father moreover. "Please, monsieur, I do not wish to speak of such things tonight."

"Understood."

His golden eyes were intent upon her, watching every movement she made. She had a feeling he was memorizing her every feature, scrutinizing her, and she felt herself redden a little under the rapt attention. She looked down and smoothed the fringed gold trim on her gown.

She cleared her throat. "Your home is lovely."

Voclain did not answer as Darius arrived with a tea tray and set it down on one of the small glass tables near them. "Should I, ah, pour?" he asked.

Monsieur Voclain waved him off just as Christine said, "I can do it, thank you." Maybe something to distract her, to busy her hands, would help her nerves calm. When she bent to the tray, she noticed there was only one teacup present. "Monsieur Darius, we are in need of another cup," she said.

Darius's lips parted to speak, but again, Voclain cut him off with a sharp cut of a gloved hand. "I do not need tea," Voclain said. "Have some for yourself." The words were uttered curtly but polite enough, so Christine went back to pouring her own cup. It might be odd to drink alone, yet she did not want to offend by refusing.

She reached for the teapot with one hand, decided on two because of the noticeable quivering. Two men watched her struggle to aim a steady stream of light brown tea into the tiny teacup. She splashed a little before she set the teapot back down, fearing she would make a mess.

She gave a little laugh, hoping it sounded more carefree than she felt. "I seem to be more chilled than I thought."

She caught the exchanged glance between the two men. Monsieur Voclain's face shifted, for a moment blurring into a stiff white mask that covered him forehead to upper jaw, curving around the flat line of his mouth.

She gave a little gasp at the sight. "Monsieur, your face."

His golden eyes widened; if she had not been staring at him, she would have missed it. She felt as though his face slammed shut, and something swept over it, an insistence that she had seen wrong, that there had been no mask. Her vision blurred; her head spun. When she managed to refocus upon him again, his face had returned to the porcelain features of a statue.

"Christine, have a seat by the fire," he said sharply. "Darius, you are dismissed."

Darius's brow furrowed. "Maestro, you must-"

"_Darius_." The word was filled with warning. It carried a steel edge to it, promised violence if disobeyed.

Still, Darius persisted. "You must stop this, maestro. You can see how she is reacting. You will _damage_ her."

Damage her? Dizziness overcoming her, Christine wanted to move to sit on the sofa as instructed, but her edges seemed fuzzy, her spatial awareness fading. She feared she might fall if she shifted even one muscle.

Voclain took a single step toward Darius, his tall body stiff, his height growing with menace. That single step was all it took for the butler to back down. Darius countered by taking a step backward and holding up both hands in compliance, and Voclain rocked back on his heels. Somehow, a fight had been avoided.

"Messieurs," Christine began. She could feel herself tipping to the side. She tried to focus on Voclain who still stood adjacent to her, but sharp pain spiked within her temples. Her hands reached out and grasped onto his arm and one lapel of his coat, wrinkling the fine black linen. He instantly froze under her touch. "Please…" she continued, "I think I am unwell."

"No, you are not unwell," she heard Darius say, bitterness coloring his voice.

A growl rose up from within the chest where her hand rested, a vibrating rumble that she felt as much as she heard. "Sit, Christine. The couch is just behind you." She felt his long fingers grip her upper arms, apply enough pressure to guide her backward. When the sofa pushed against the backs of her knees, she bent to sit. He guided her down as though she weighed nothing, his hold firm but not painful.

"I cannot be a part of this," Darius said, now sounding closer to the door. "If you want her to be around for much longer, you will do what you need to do. Or else turn her loose, for god's sake." She heard his quick footsteps in the hallway, and she knew she was again alone with her suitor.

"What does he mean?" Christine asked. She shook her head, trying to clear the fuzziness. When Voclain's hands slipped from her upper arms, she grasped onto one of them lest he try to back away from her, the fingers like stone in her grip. "What have you done to me?"

"Nothing that I thought could be prevented," he said, voice thick. He knelt before her, his face flashing from smooth pale skin to mask and back again. His visage blurred and flowed like water. Her head ached like it was being hammered from within.

She lifted her other hand and reached to touch his cheek, needing that physical contact to understand why her eyes and mind were at war.

He recoiled. "Mademoiselle Daaé."

No, she must do this. "Christine," she said. "You have said my name before. Why do I feel like this when I am near you? Whatever truth you are hiding from me must be cast aside. We have only just met, monsieur. If we are to wed, there must be no lies between us."

She felt the rush of his breath cool upon her hand. "I cannot hide from you, Christine Daaé."

She frowned. "Why would you want to hide? Am I that frightening?"

He shook his head. He was kneeling upon one knee, the other an angular jut next to her skirts. "I am not a trusting… man. I have spent too long fearing the reactions of others."

"Their reaction to your mask, you mean." From the way his fingers tightened around her hand, she had guessed correctly. "I have seen it before, monsieur. When we met in the street that rainy evening. Are you doing something to prevent me from seeing your mask?"

"It is a trick, of sorts."

"Like a magician?"

"I suppose so. I was called that once, yes. Yes, like that of a magician." His eyes softened, the only thing about him that she could currently see clearly. "You are a marvel, Christine."

She did not understand why he thought so. She was being far too outspoken, far too blunt, especially for a young woman meeting her intended husband formally for the first time. "Can you stop? The trick, I mean. I feel so utterly sick from the confusion. I only wish to see you as you are, monsieur."

He blew out another cool breath, and she had the odd thought that he had not breathed between them. "My name is Erik. I wish to be called thus."

"All right." She wet her lips. "Erik."

A ripple traveled down to the hand she was still holding, clearly a tremor from him and not from her. Then, all at once, the fog within her mind lifted as though someone had pulled a pillowcase off her head. She blinked away the last of haziness and settled her eyes on him free from the veil of trickery for the first time.

He wore a mask of ivory, the skin around it nearly as pale. She could see the thin bit of string or wire that held it around the back of his head just above his ears. The mask cut across his forehead and covered the entirety of his cheeks and nose, ending in a curve around his thin lips that were set in a firm grimace.

There would be other times to question why he wore such a thing. For now, she let her hand travel the rest of the distance between them, and he did not draw back though his fingers spasmed once in hers. Her fingertips touched the fierce arch of his cheekbone, and the material of his mask was shockingly cold.

"There you are, Erik."


	6. Chapter 5: decide

**I am so relieved this chapter is done - haha! Fun stuff to come.**

* * *

**Chapter 5: decide**

Erik had cast aside his glamour, let it fall like a wave of dispersing fog around them. He had never done such a thing in the presence of a human – even with Madame Giry, he had maintained a standard of presence around her. Humans were stupid and quick to presumptions. He had lived his entire life being judged for his appearance. When he had… changed, when he had finally had a _choice_, he had put up the glamour and never looked back.

But he had also never had a human react to his glamour the way this woman had. Perhaps he should have ended everything at this moment. He should send her home and rescind the engagement. He should heed these warnings. Instead, he remained kneeling before her with nothing blocking the gaze of her appraisal but his mask.

Christine's face smoothed, the lines of pain gone from between her fine brows, but it was her eyes that let him know the effects of his glamour had ended. She blinked her sky-blue eyes, and when she settled them upon him again, she truly saw him for the first time. If he had been alive, he might have held his breath then. He breathed so little as is, and so he just held still and let her look and tried to control his trembling under her studious gaze. Her grip on his hand was firm and unrelenting, but she could have kept him in place with merely a soft word.

She reached out and touched the cheek of his mask, and he almost hissed then, his instinct to prevent what might happen next so strong. He had never, _never _allowed someone to remove his mask since he had fled Mazandaran, and violence lurched unbidden to the surface.

But she merely touched the porcelain with the pads of her fingertips and said in a wondrous tone, "There you are, Erik." And her full lips curled into a small smile.

If he had a pulse, it would have quickened. She could see everything – the edge of his mask that did not quite cover every disgusting lump of flesh, the shriveled skin around his eyes, the odd thinness to his lips. If she continued to study him, she might notice his too perfect hair and the hairline of his wig he tried to disguise with powder.

But she only smiled at him. _There you are, Erik._

He was lost. No, he was found.

By her.

"Is this… to your satisfaction?" he asked, conscious that she could now see his real lips move. He kept his words vague, but truly, he meant his appearance. She could take it to mean the headaches and dizziness, if they were gone.

"Yes, Erik," she said, those two words so simple and so magnanimous.

Gods, his name formed upon that mouth. He swallowed dryly. "The tea grows cold."

"Oh. Right. It does."

The spell broken, she let her hand fall as she also let go of his fingers. He was bereft of her, released by her spell. He stood and fetched her a cup, attending to it in the way she asked: no cream, one lump of sugar. When he returned, he handed her the cup, careful not to let their fingers touch, and seated himself in one of the high-backed chairs opposite her, the distance needed to help his head clear.

She busied herself with sipping her tea, and he allowed himself to take her in. Her hair was piled atop her head, an unwelcome change from how her ringlets had always fallen freely down her back when he had seen her before. She was dressed in a new gown of emerald green and rich blue, and the high quality suited her, the neckline cutting a heart shape across her fine collarbones, the lace sleeves falling to her elbows. He was entranced for a moment by the fine hairs on the backs of her arms and the steady pulse in her neck and the gentle sound of her swallows.

He noticed she was looking at him again and cleared his throat, a human thing he remembered to do before speaking. "Tell me about yourself, Christine."

"There is little to tell, I think," she said, her mouth turning down ever so slightly in the corners. "I was born in Sweden, but I started traveling young. My father and I moved to France when I was a little girl." She held the teacup upon its saucer too stiffly in her lap. "I am rather plain, monsieur, and my life has matched."

"Do not," he said, leaning forward to balance his elbows upon his knees, "do such a thing to yourself."

She blinked at him. "D-Do what?"

"Presume. You believe your life has resulted in few stories to tell, that you can skip over all the details to give me a mere summary of your twenty-one years."

Clearly caught off guard by his bluntness, she bought herself thinking time by raising the cup to her lips. When she lowered it again, she had formed an answer. "I have never thought anyone was interested enough."

He leaned back in his chair. "I am interested. You are here this evening, aren't you? I am _interested_, Christine."

He caught the way she shivered at that. "As you wish, Erik," she said, a bit of annoyance coloring her words. She was frustrated with him, and he admitted to himself that he was delighted over the new bloom of red upon her cheeks. "I… was born in Sweden. That explains my accent, if you have noticed it."

"I have noticed. I have never been to Sweden, however. What is it like?"

"I was eight when we left. But I remember it being cold. I hated the winters there – there was little daylight and the snow piled up so much that we couldn't go out anyway. I lived for summer when the sunlight lasted all day and it was warm again. I didn't mind when Papa wanted to move south except that it meant leaving Mama."

"Your mother?"

Christine took another long sip of tea. "I did not want to leave her gravesite. She died a few months before we left Sweden. Influenza. I wish I had been older so I could remember her better, but I have snippets. I remember her hair being as wild as mine. And a lot of the foundations of what I know about music, I owe to her."

He straightened his back at that. "You are well versed in music?"

She flushed and rose from the sofa, walking over to the tray to place her empty teacup. Erik saw her sudden surge of nervousness in her movements, in the way she fiddled with one of her pinkies, in how her eyes did not quite meet his. What was she hiding?

* * *

Christine picked at the nail of her pinky finger, grasping for any moment she could get to collect herself. She needed to backtrack this conversation before she said anything she should not disclose. She should never have brought up music, but her thoughts always turned there when remembering her mother.

Her words from one of the last conversations she had with her mother floated into her head. _I have a song inside of me, Mama_. _Can I not share it?_ And then her mother had gotten ill, and her father had… well, she had thought she would never hear his violin again.

She chose her words carefully. "My father has quite a talent for the violin."

"Your father could easily have a place in any opera house in the world."

He could, she agreed silently. She had always known Papa was one of the greatest violin players alive. But no one ever wanted to listen to the less fortunate long enough to notice.

She hovered where she was, not coming back to sit. "That is kind of you to say."

"It is the truth." He tilted his head to the side, considering her with new attention that made her flair of nervousness worsen. "Do you play?"

"The violin? I know how to hold it, how to draw out a note, how to clean it and tune it and change the hairs. But no, I do not know how to play. Papa never let me attempt such a thing."

"A mistake on his part."

She swallowed hard. "I shouldn't speak ill of him. Any music is a great gift."

"It is."

He rose then from the couch, and she found herself countering by edging further away, as though the distance would erase the fact that she did not want to talk about her background.

_I have a song inside of me, Mama_.

"Christine?"

Oh, the sound of _her_ name upon _his _lips. At that moment, she felt like she would tell him anything if he would only call her by name again. She needed to diverge his attention to something else lest she give into the temptation. This man… he wanted to make her his wife, didn't he? Could she not reveal herself to him?

Papa's words of warning echoed in her head. She had a gift, but it was not one that could be easily given. She could not simply shut off years of silence. And if Erik was as interested in music as she suspected he was, she feared his reaction above all.

But temptation was a powerful encourager.

"This is a beautiful piano, monsieur," she said, crossing the last distance to the baby grand in gleaming black. "May I?" She tapped the cover to the keyboard in question.

"Of course," he replied, his golden eyes attentive upon her.

She lifted the cover and slid onto the bench seat, then touched the smooth keys with reverence. "It has been a while since I was able to play."

"Do what you like."

She spread her fingers and settled into a chord, feeling the sounds within her body as much as she heard them with her ears. Then she pressed out another and another. "You keep this piano perfectly in tune."

"Yes," he said simply.

A little indulgence could not hurt, could it? She played a few snippets of a tune in her head, nothing recognizable, then faltered. It had been so long since she had been able to play a piano, and now she had an audience.

"There is sheet music on the rack," Erik said from her elbow, "if you need something to play." She looked up, having to crane a little due to his height. When had he moved to stand beside her?

There was indeed sheet music. Christine chewed on her bottom lip. She really should have dived in and played something from memory rather than have to admit that she could not read music. She reached out and thumbed through the pages, seeing that it was a short sonata for the piano.

She flipped to the title page, read the title: "Sonno, a Sonata for Piano," and gasped with delight. "I know this music!" Then she read the composer's name. Her eyes widened, and she swung them up to stare at him. "_You_ wrote this!"

His mouth quirked up at the corners, amused. "I did. You seem surprised, Christine. Your father did not tell you? I outlined my career and estate when we discussed our engagement."

No wonder Papa had been so gleeful. "You are Voclain," she said in awe. "_The _Voclain. I don't know why I did not even think of such a thing being possible. You are Voclain, the Italian composer."

"Not Italian," he said. "Most of my lyrics are in the language, yes, but I am French-born."

"My apologies. I-I started reading music reviews in the newspaper when we moved here. The critics seem to make a lot of assumptions about you, and you have never given an interview to tell the truth. Your accent has a different lilt to it than French."

"I have traveled often, and I do not much enjoy the company of people, as you may have guessed."

Christine let that jab at himself slide. Even with all this discussion, she had learned little about him; he avoided details about his life with an ease she noticed. She wanted to know so much more about him, but she saw that she would have to pull every ounce from him.

"I still cannot believe you wrote 'Sonno,' monsieur." She placed the sonata back upon the rack and dived right into the second theme of the piece, her favorite part. She _knew_ this sonata, had hummed portions of it whenever the mood suited her. Papa had played it a few times, but she was the one who had latched onto the melody in her head since she had first heard it.

"You have memorized this piece?" Erik asked.

"I can hear it in my head," she admitted. "But I- I am a poor piano player. Papa can read music, but I never learned." She was ashamed to admit it, now that she knew he was a composer. He _wrote_ music for a living! She continued quickly, "They are too harsh critics of yours. I have not been able to hear much of your work, but this is one of your more famous pieces, right?"

"Yes." He sank to the bench next to her as she scooted to the far edge to make room. There was not much space for the both of them, and the edges of their thighs brushed. Decorum demanded that she pull back from this situation, that she perhaps get up and move to a nearby chair. She stayed put.

He settled his hands upon the keys. "May I?"

She gave him her first real smile of the evening. "Would you play this piece, please? I love it so."

"Do you?" He turned his head to look down at her. He was as close as he had been during that moment in the rain weeks ago, a moment that seemed a lifetime away, but she could see him more clearly now. She kept her attention on his eyes, sensing that he would be uncomfortable if she scrutinized the mask.

"I do," she said honestly.

"Then I shall oblige."

He hesitated, a split second of his long fingers hovering above the keys, before he dove into the piece. If she had not been observing him so closely, she might have missed the moment's pause. Truthfully, she had been waiting for him to remove his gloves; she could not imagine he would play such a difficult sonata with the restriction. However, he left them on, and her curiosity flamed as to why.

She knew the melodies of "Sonno" by heart, but she had never heard it played the way it had been intended – with piano in the starring role. Erik's gloves did not seem to hinder him in the slightest; he played expertly, the keys merely an extension of his fingers, which splayed their long, narrow lengths across the ivories with ease. She held her hands in her lap, careful of the space she inhabited upon the bench. When Erik had to lean over to tap the lower register, she held her breath as his shoulder pressed against hers.

Christine had heard far more entrancing songs before. Papa had always made certain that she was exposed to a variety of music. But something about Voclain's sonata had captivated her. The way the notes intertwined in ways she had never heard before, or maybe it was the sudden changes in tempo and chord. The sonata kept the listener off-guard, and even though she had heard it before, she could still feel her body thrumming with the feel of it when he finished. A composer had just played his own arrangement before her, and she could do little more than remind herself to breathe.

He sat back, rested his hands upon his thighs. "I… rarely play for an audience. Did you enjoy it, Christine?"

"You never create anything beautiful," she murmured aloud.

His little bark of a laugh drew her back. "An accurate assessment, my dear."

She felt herself flush bright red. "I-I mean, I read that in a review of your works. In the newspaper. I am so sorry!"

"Far be it for me to correct."

"No, no, I disagree actually. Those music critics – they want songs they can figure out. Oh, I am sure they want to hear melodies they have never heard before, but they also want them to make sense, to be sortable." She raised a hand and plinked out a few notes from one of her favorite parts where a sudden shift in tone occurred. "You didn't make anything easy in "Sonno" and the critics hated it. But I love it, truly. _I _find it a beautiful song."

His golden eyes had widened during her speech, not quite so shadowed by his mask when they were sitting close together. His lips parted, and if he had asked her right then for her hand, she would have given it. This fact startled her, so much so that she almost missed the way he suddenly pressed his lips back together. It was an odd action, not one meant to stop himself from speaking. It was almost as though he was… holding something in.

A soft knock startled the air between them.

"Pardon me," Darius said from the doorway. "You wished for me to let you know when forty-five minutes had passed."

Erik jerked away from her, rising from the bench in a quick unfolding of long limbs. "Of course," he said curtly. "I promised Monsieur Daaé to have her home by nine o'clock."

"I suppose I should be going then," Christine said, getting up from the opposite side of the bench.

"Darius will escort you out," Erik said, his back to her, his shoulders broad lines of stiffness.

Christine gave him a long look. Something had shifted between them. They had gone from an easy discussion about music, one that had excited some life within her, to this odd tension. Why did it feel as though the butler had walked in on them engaging in something immodest? Erik had been nothing but polite during her time here, in all ways. But something had shifted between them. Erik was doing everything he could to make a quick exit.

"I had a lovely time," she said to Erik. And then she held out her hand.

Propriety demanded that he respond. He swung around and bent over her hand, his own rising to barely cup her fingers in a shadow of a handshake. "As did I," he said softly, voice strained. "Good night, Christine."

He swept out of the room before she could say anything else. When she stepped to Darius's side, he had vanished down the unlit hallway that extended down the length of the second floor.

Darius gestured for her to follow him. "Was everything to your liking?" he asked as he gathered her cloak and gloves.

Christine glanced once more up the broad stone staircase, but there was no sign of Erik. A gentleman would have accompanied her to the door.

"I am not certain what I did wrong," she said, following Darius outside where the carriage awaited, horses stamping in the cooler night air. "He was fine, and the next moment, he was not."

Darius helped her into the carriage and closed the door behind her. "You did nothing wrong," he said. He climbed into the driver's seat, effectively ending their conversation.

Christine's thoughts spun. Monsieur Erik Voclain. He had gone to her father and asked for her hand in marriage after merely seeing her a handful of times. He was a renowned composer, clearly a man of wealthy means. He had worn a mask and tried to cover it up from her. And yet, during their short time together, he had spoken kindly to her and played the piano only because it seemed to please her.

The night was heavy with the earthy scent of fallen rain, and the horses' hooves splashed upon the street. She simply could not leave things between them like this. Christine lurched forward and banged on the wall of the carriage.

"Stop at once, Darius!" she called.

* * *

Erik fled down the hallway, the darkness not a hinderance to his golden eyes. He made it down the far end before he ducked into an empty room, one of many that had never been decorated. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it. She had been too close for too long, her warmth too overwhelming. Her pale skin flushed with every feeling she emoted, the reddened cheeks of her frustration or embarrassment, her ears pinking, the silhouette of blood rising to the surface.

He pressed his gloved hand to his lips, clamped down hard against the fangs still protruding from his gums. Control had been lost, only for a moment, but if Darius had not entered when he did…

This was all a mistake. How could he wed this girl when he could barely exist in the same room as her?

Still, it took only a moment for his fangs to subside, and then he was out of the house in a blur of black clothing. He would only see her home safely, only watch until she made it back to her apartment. A light misting rain dampened his eyelashes, seeped behind his mask, as he slipped through shadows. The trail was easy to follow, but the carriage had taken a roundabout way back to her neighborhood.

He drew up sharply.

The carriage was pulled to the side of the park where he had first seen Christine, its bulk a darker black against the night. Christine stood underneath a streetlamp, trees casting long shadows across her slight form. Darius still sat in the driver's seat, and when Erik approached, his eyes pleaded for no violence because of this turn in events.

Erik had seen what Christine could be like when determined. He doubted the butler had been given any choice.

He stopped a length away from her, not wanting to crowd, a predator approaching potential prey.

Christine was breathing heavily as though she had been running. "I knew you would follow me," she said, her tone as fierce as he had ever heard it. "I knew you would watch to see if I arrived home safely. You are always doing that, always watching, aren't you? You have been since the first time I saw you here, standing behind that tree."

"Yes." What else could he say?

She continued, barely pausing to hear his short response. "I do not have to ask why you are following me now, Erik. I know why. I know you keep me safe. I know you have been taking care of me. Your money has bought my father some time. Your money has bought me these clothes when I needed them." She fisted her skirts with white knuckles and shook the satin blue and green fabric. "You have clothed me, fed me, and through all of that, you have watched me in order to keep me _safe_."

Flinging her arms to either side, she spread her small hands wide. "But I do not know why _me_!" When he did not give an immediate response, she gave a rueful laugh with no mirth in it. "That first day, you saw me do little more than collect money from strangers, and yet you came again and again. You followed me home, and since then, you have watched me attend to laundry or fetch groceries or run into the street in a panic when Papa was ill. Any other man would have grown bored or found someone much more fascinating than me by now."

She swung her eyes to the ground, staring at the space between their feet, chest heaving. Curly tendrils of golden hair had escaped her pinning, and he resisted the urge to strip off a glove and run his fingers along its twisting edges.

He crossed the distance between them, forcing his hands to remain loose at his sides. Her heart fluttered wildly in the pulse in her neck, but he kept his gaze upon hers lest he unwittingly release the monster inside himself again. He was the one who should be doubting why she would agree to marry him. It was all a farce, this life he offered her.

But he had nothing else to give.

Her words mirrored his own thoughts. "I have nothing of worth to offer you," she said, voice now falling to a whisper. "No money, no name, almost no family. If I did something today or said something to cause you to change your mind, all you should do is tell me, and I would understand."

He tucked a spindly finger under her chin and tilted her face up. Her eyes snapped back to his, those blue depths swimming with unshed tears. She had faced such hardship, and she still stared at him unflinchingly. She was strong, his little bride. He wanted her all the more, consequences be damned.

"I have money, Christine. I have a composer's name. Become my wife, and I will give everything I have to you."

"You barely have any idea of who I am," she cried. _And nor I you,_ he heard in the echo.

"Then we will learn. But promise me this, Christine. This is the final time you will ever doubt your own worth to me."

Her eyes widened, those eyes the color of a clear sky. He knew exactly how long it had been since he had seen the real sky, how long since he had felt the sun upon his skin. If this woman would agree to be his wife, he could find some peace in her presence. He could stop counting the moments and simply _forget_.

"I promise," she said at last. "I-I should be getting home. My apologies for… this."

"None are needed. But indeed, you should be getting home." He looked over his shoulder at Darius, who immediately straightened on the bench of the carriage. No words had to be exchanged between them. Erik knew he would not see Darius again this night; no doubt the Persian would stay away rather than face Erik's wrath.

Christine seemed much mollified by the conversation, pulling the edges of the cloak around herself as though cold. Pausing at the first step of the carriage, she said, "I will give you an answer soon about our engagement."

"Take the time that you need," he replied.

She nodded, and the edge of white teeth flashed as she bit her lip. "Good night, Erik."

"Good night, Christine."

He waited until the carriage had pulled back onto the correct path to her apartment before following deep within the shadows. His glamour should not cause her any harm at a distance, and so he used it to keep himself from her notice. If she did catch a glimpse of him lingering until she was safely abed, she gave no sign.

If fed properly, if not set ablaze by sun or fire, if not beheaded, Erik would live forever. He had grown used to waiting with patience. What was one day versus one year to a man who was suspended in time? He had told Christine to take her time, but what she did not know was that her father had less than a month to live. The cloud of death hung around him too darkly now, and there would be no going back.

And she also did not know that Erik had already published the bans of marriage, even before her father had accepted his proposal. One way or another, they would be wed.

He had told her to take her time. It was not the first lie he had told her. It certainly would not be the last.

* * *

**Next up: wedding bells?**


	7. Chapter 6: wed

**This chapter didn't go quite according to plan, but I think the next one will well make up for it!**

* * *

**Chapter 6: wed**

"Please put them on the kitchen table." Christine pressed her mouth into a firm line as she then fetched her coin purse once more and held out a tip.

This boy, like the others, protested. "I've already been paid, mademoiselle! I am under strict orders not to accept any further tip. If I anger him, he won't pick me as his runner anymore."

"Yes, I know." She sighed, not the first time, and tucked the coin away. "Thank you for your trouble."

The boy touched the brim of his hat and scurried off. Christine closed the door behind him and turned to examine the latest delivery: a dozen lilies in a soft purple. A card accompanied the arrangement, scrawled in a rather awkward script.

_"Another sign of spring to bring you warmth. Yours, E."_

The lilies were beautiful, of perfect quality, and their fragrance added to the cacophony other vases of flowers upon the table. Soft pink roses, tulips in brilliant orange and yellow, voluminous white peonies. They all came with a card written with a single line meant to flatter or thrill her. And it had not only been flowers. A box of pastries from a fancy bakery had arrived at first light this morning. After that, flowers, boxes of chocolate and other fine goods had followed. Even a pair of earrings had come via a very nervous delivery boy, and the card had promised more finery if she was so inclined.

She supposed it was all romantic, the moves of a suitor trying to win her hand.

Her annoyance must have been far too obvious, however, because Papa called out from the bedroom: "What did he send this time, dearest?"

"More flowers," she said over her shoulder. Her hand reached out and stroked the delicate petal of one of the lilies with her thumb. She had often seen the bushels of spring flowers lining the streets, but she had never had the money to buy any for herself. Now her table was covered in the beautiful plants, and yet her stomach roiled with nerves.

"Christine," said her father.

She added the card to the stack with the rest and walked to her father's bedside. He was propped upright with pillows at the insistence of Dr. Martin, who said too much lying down would further endanger his damaged lungs.

"Yes, Papa?"

He looked up at her with watery eyes, the once brilliant blue now a dullish sea gray, the color of an approaching storm. She knew her own eyes were as red-rimmed as his; she had lost too much sleep these past three nights because of his worsening cough.

"These gifts do not please you," he said, not a question.

She cut her gaze away. "They are nice, Papa. I know he is trying to be nice."

"But?"

Christine wanted to tell him why her heart was so heavy, that she felt forced into this marriage, that if she did not accept Erik Voclain's proposal, she felt as though she had to become his wife in order to ensure he continued to pay for Dr. Martin's services. Papa's very life would be in danger.

She had not told Charles about her conversation with Erik in the park after she had left his house. She knew he would never fully understand why this decision was so difficult for her. She was an offering being served to a man who knew he could have her… so why _was_ he making so much effort to gain her favor?

He already had her… gifts or no gifts.

She straightened, meeting her father's expectant eyes again. "I will give him an answer soon, Papa, but I will not be rushed into the matter."

Charles opened his mouth to speak, but his torso convulsed, the cough overtaking him once again. It took a long time to quiet him back down. When she left his room, he was half-asleep from the drugs. She hoped he would not wake until the morning; the more he slept, the less he suffered.

A few more gifts arrived that afternoon. More flowers, mostly, except in the evening when a man in a chef's uniform appeared with a full four-course meal for two people. Even though Christine had thought the rest of the gifts were in good taste, she secretly loved this one, which showed more thought toward her comfort than flowers or jewelry.

When she had finished her portions and placed Papa's in the icebox for when he woke, Christine sat by the window and attempted to read.

And then somehow, she knew Erik was there.

She parted the curtains and looked down to the street. He stood on the sidewalk, a darker shadow among shadows, out in the open where she could not mistake him. His golden eyes seem to glow in the lamplight. He was a tall figure cut out of black cloth, all angular lines and piercing gaze.

Perhaps she should have been afraid to throw on her cloak and make her way into the night to stand before him. She was not.

Her breath blew out in little wisps, the warmth turned white in the chilly air. "Thank you for the gifts."

His head tilted slightly. "You are not pleased," he said. She did not see his breath as she did her own.

"No, no, I am." She felt her face flush hot with embarrassment. What an ungrateful child she suddenly felt! Her earlier thoughts came back to haunt her; Erik had only been trying his best to flatter her, to show he had been thinking of her throughout the day. And she had disregarded all of his good intentions.

He shifted from one foot to the next… a subtle movement that made him seem as uncomfortable as she was. "I know so little of your tastes," he monotoned. "I thought perhaps a variety would be more likely to discover your likes."

"O-of course. Thank you so much, Erik. The flowers were especially beautiful."

He gave her a long look, then produced a box which had been tucked under his arm beneath his cloak. It was thin and rectangular, and the top was secured with a bit of ribbon.

"For me?" she asked as he thrust it at her.

"Open it."

The ribbon gave way. Christine lifted off the top to reveal the stack of parchment lying flat within. "A copy of 'Sonno'?" she asked, looking up at him questioningly.

Erik shuffled once again. "I rewrote the piece to align with what you might have heard your father play. This copy has been composed for violin, not piano."

"Oh!" Christine touched the ink with renewed enthusiasm. A different kind of warmth spread throughout her. "You did this… for me?"

"Do you like it?"

"I love it, Erik. Papa has been too weak to play his violin as of late, but maybe you would play it for me sometime?"

She thought the corner of his mouth twisted upward. "I would."

Christine replaced the lid and clutched the box to her chest. Erik had truly tried to think of something that would mean a lot to her, and he had succeeded in every way. Suddenly, she grasped how unfair she had been in her judgement of him.

"Perhaps you should return indoors now," Erik said, half-turning from her. "I only wished to deliver the composition to you safely."

"Erik."

"Yes, Christine?"

He stared down at her from that impressive height, his eyes shadowed behind the edges of his mask. She realized he had not even tried to put up his glamour between the two of them; he had not done so since he had removed the illusion at his home days ago. Once he had understood how much the trickery hurt her, he had stopped. This was the kind of man she known him to be thus far, and she hoped that she was right.

She swallowed down her nerves. "Why haven't you simply asked me to marry you?"

His eyes narrowed behind his mask. "There are the way things are done, and then there are the way things should be done. Perhaps in a different world, I could simply ask you."

"If you did, then you would get an answer."

He squared his shoulders. She heard a faint clearing of the throat, and for some reason, that one little bit of self-consciousness from him thrilled her. "Christine, would you marry me?"

She did not hesitate. "Yes. I agree to be your w-wife." How strange those words felt upon her tongue, but despite how she stumbled over them, she knew her answer was true.

The tension went out of him. He bent and curled a gloved finger under her chin, the barest touch that stole her breath away. "We can be married by the end of the week," he said.

Her eyes widened. "But the bans… it has to be published first."

"This is already done," he said, his finger still balanced under her chin, the leather cold against her skin. "All I needed was your consent to proceed from there."

She thought to wrench away from him, but the pressure of his touch kept her rooted in place. There was no way that Erik could have published the bans without Papa's approval. She thought of the two men having this conversation without her, but she was not certain of her own reaction, of how she _should_ react. Her body was being pulled along a trajectory that she could not

By the end of the week. They could be married by the end of the week.

She raised her chin, the movement enough to break contact with him. He let his hand drift back to his side. "Once we are married, I will live at your home?"

"Yes."

"Then Papa must move in as well. I could never leave him here."

"It will be done," Erik said immediately. "His room is already prepared for him. He will be separate from the main house with his own butler, as is custom. There is a small chapel between here and my estate. Once we are married there, Darius will escort your father to his new quarters. I assure you, Christine, that Monsieur Daaé will receive excellent care there."

Christine had no doubt of this.

Married by the end of the week. It was far sooner than she had thought, and her stomach flip-flopped with nervousness. Still, she remained chin-raised, meeting Erik's steady gaze.

"I give my consent, Erik."

"Then go home, my dear. Get your rest."

She dipped her head in some semblance of goodbye and hurried back across the street, the composition still clutched to her chest. A quick peek into Papa's room showed her that he was still asleep, so she busied herself with dressing for bed.

Once her hair was combed in thick golden waves down her back, and she had pulled a blanket to her waist, she settled onto the couch and spread the pages of "Sonno" across her lap. Even though she could not read music, she gingerly touched the notes and imagined Erik sitting and writing the sheet music just for her enjoyment.

Yes, by the end of the week, she would be wed.

* * *

Over the next few days, Erik's gifts were only music. Sometimes he sent over snippets of sonatas with which she was already familiar. Sometimes they were pieces of compositions of his that she had never experienced. When curious enough, she would ask Papa to hum a little of the song for her, and in this way, she discovered new melodies that left her longing for more. Erik knew that she could not read music, but the compositions were not meant as a reminder of that fact. They were the _promise_ of the music to come, of what life with him could be like.

Admittedly, they did help ease the nerves churning in her belly, so much so that she was taken aback when Darius Ardavan knocked on their door at six o'clock sharp just as she was finishing the dishes from dinner.

His light brown face seemed flushed with a deep pink, his eyes bright. "Good evening, mademoiselle," he said, stepping through the doorway before she had the chance to greet him. "I came as soon as I could to pick you up."

Christine blinked at him. "Pick me up?"

"For your wedding, of course." Darius swept by her, pulling off his hat as he knocked upon Charles's bedroom door. Christine was surprised to see Papa sitting on the side of his bed, dressed in a fresh dark blue suit, his hair carefully combed. "Good evening, Monsieur Daaé."

"Good evening, Darius," Charles said. "I am ready, as promised."

"So I see, monsieur! I will take your bag for you." Darius took up the small piece of luggage that Christine had not noticed on the floor near the bed. "Dr. Martin is waiting in the carriage, but he can assist if you require him."

Charles shook his head. "If we go slowly, I should be able to manage."

Christine moved aside for Darius, who walked past her to load up the bag. "Papa, what is going on?"

Her father stood and swayed a little. She reached out and put an arm around his middle to steady him, and he smiled gratefully down at her. "Daughter mine, I am determined to witness your marriage to Monsieur Voclain. But afterward, I will not be joining you at his manor."

It felt as though he had just thrown cold water in her face. "What do you mean?" she asked shakily.

"I could not possibly impose on you both," he said, giving her a squeeze. "There is a lovely hospice center not far from Voclain's estate that has agreed to take me in."

"But this is not what we agreed, Papa!" She could feel her voice rising. She was not certain which of them was now holding up the other.

Darius returned. From the sweep of his eyes and the firm set of his mouth, he knew what the argument was about. Without a word, he ducked under Charles's other shoulder so that Christine could gather up her own belongings.

"I will not hear of this," she continued, tugging on her gloves with angry movements. "Erik said he had a room all ready-made for you!"

"Indeed, he told me," Charles said. He gave her a warm but determined look, the one she knew meant she had already lost this argument. "You are getting _married_, Christine, and I will only be a burden to the both of you. Monsieur Voclain and Dr. Martin have both assured me that this care facility is the best."

"It is," Darius said as they made their way to the door. "He will have round-the-clock care in the most comfortable conditions."

Christine did not reply, could not reply, her throat closing on her. It was her wedding day, and she did not want to cry. Her father was a grown man capable of making his own decisions, and she could clearly see that this one had been already made without her acknowledgement.

"Please don't be mad at me," Charles said. "This is what is best."

"I am not mad," she managed to whisper.

The three of them made their way down the stairs, and Charles Daaé stepped outside for the first time in over a month. He took a moment to breathe in the cool night air before Darius helped him inside a waiting carriage that would take him to the hospice to settle in and then to the chapel. Darius and Christine climbed aboard a separate ride to Erik's manor where she would dress.

It was the second time she had seen Erik's home. She wondered if the high spires in white stone would look less imposing in the daylight or if the red trim would still seem as ominous. Would the manor look as large with sunlight trimming its edges? She had only ever seen Erik at night, for that matter, when he could intermingle with the shady backdrop. She tried to picture him in bright daylight, but the image seemed too odd and she shook it away.

Darius escorted her to a section of the estate that she had not ventured into last time. The red outside door led directly into a tower with a spiral staircase that opened to a single hallway. Lit sconces dotted the walls, heaping candlelight throughout their passage.

They stopped at the first door, and Darius opened it to reveal an expansive bedroom that seemed decorated just for her. The walls were covered in a beautiful lavender wallpaper detailed in silver, and ivory-colored furniture was studded with ornate, crystal knobs. A large claw-footed tub peaked out from behind a screen, a luxury she had never seen before. Across the bed were draped various pieces of wedding gowns, spread out for her perusal.

Madame Giry sat upon a velvet chaise lounge, looking as though she had been waiting for Christine to arrive. Christine was not surprised to see her, however. The ballet mistress seemed to have a way of knowing when she was most needed.

Giry stood and nodded her head in greeting. "I am here to help you, my dear girl."

As Darius ducked out and closed the door, Christine placed her few personal items down. "I am so glad to see you, madame. I… I am a little nervous."

"Of course you are." Madame Giry walked over the tub and tested the water. "A hot bath will do you some good. I will return in half an hour."

"Thank you, madame."

Once she was alone, Christine stripped, tied up her hair, and sank into the bubbly tub. The water was warm and scented with rose oil, and she felt her tension ease immediately.

In less than an hour, she would be a married woman.

She ran her hands down her body. She had never considered herself womanly, even after her shape had begun to change, her curves becoming more pronounced. A lifetime of poverty had kept her figure gangly, but she had not until now considered how a man might view her knobby knees or small breasts. She could hide these features under a voluptuous bustle, but on her wedding night…

A brisk knock on the door told her that Madame Giry had returned. Christine called out for the woman to give her a moment, and then she rose from the tub and dried herself off with a fluffy towel. Once she had buttoned up her wrapper, she told the older woman to enter.

"Have you considered what you will wear?" Madame Giry asked, gesturing at the piles of white and cream-colored satin and lace heaped upon the bed.

Christine had not, actually. How could she possibly choose what to wear under such pressure? She did not know what Erik might fancy… she did not know what _she_ might fancy.

"If- if I pick out the bodice and skirt, will you help me choose what goes underneath?" she asked.

Madame Giry nodded and gestured again, a movement that showed they would soon run out of time. Christine went to the bodices first, a variety of sleeve lengths and bosom shapes. She selected one that kept her more covered, but that would also add shape to her boyish figure, the satin covering her neck to wrist with a bit of lace trim.

Madame Giry clicked her tongue. "If you are going to pick something so plain for the top, then the skirt must have more intrigue and detail. This has the same lace trim, but in more abundance, and the ruffles along the train will look attractive when you move."

"Thank you," Christine said. Giry was right. The two pieces _would_ look pretty together. The ruffles on the train resembled little waves across silky water, at the lace added some much-needed intrigue to keep the gown from seeming too plain. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and then she bent and fingered the edge of one sleeve. The fabric was butter-soft under her fingertips.

Madame Giry selected matching undergarments, and they spent the next moments in silence as Christine dressed. Finally, the older woman pulled over a tall floor mirror and adjusted Christine's long veil while Christine gazed at herself. Clad head to toe in ivory silk, she looked the perfect image of a bride. Her golden hair had been swept from her neck and studded with pearl pins. Her hands were left bare, her skin now clean and glowing.

Madame Giry met her eyes in the mirror and gave a sharp nod of approval. "Come, we must go. Monsieur Ardavan stands ready to drive us."

"A-All right." Christine stared at herself in the mirror, then cleared her throat. "Madame, do… do you think Monsieur Voclain a good man?"

Giry snapped her head back around. "It matters little what I think."

"But you know him. You have known him for a long time, I can see that. Please…" She forced herself to keep the woman's steely gaze, to hold onto her own resolve. "Is there anything about him you will tell me?"

"Still nervous, are you?"

"More than a little," Christine admitted.

Madame Giry blew out a sigh. "Let us be off. We can speak during the drive over."

"Thank you," Christine said with relief.

But it was a while before the ballet mistress spoke, the sound of horses' hooves upon cobblestone and the creaking of the wooden carriage filling the space between them. Madame Giry's knuckles were tight around the head of her cane.

"I have known Erik for thirty years," she said at last, dark eyes staring into the shadows of the carriage. "He had snuck into the Palais Garnier one night, starving, stinking of decaying earth. He was half-wild and dangerous, and I should have called for help, but I didn't. He listened to me when I told him to bathe, and then I fed him…" Here she paused and glanced at Christine, and something in that look made Christine not ask for more details, to allow the woman to keep going with her story as she saw fit.

"Once his needs were met, a new man emerged, and we settled into a routine together. I spent ten years helping him hide within the Palais Garnier. He never told me where he had come from, nor anything of his past except that he had spent a considerable amount of time in Persia. He was not an easy man with which to get along, but he was – and still is – a brilliant musician and composer. He transformed the opera house, made it the successful institution it is today with his musical guidance."

Madame Giry shook her head in remembrance. "We had a falling out, he and I. He left the Palais Garnier, and when I finally heard from him again, years had passed. Even then, we corresponded only through letters and his compositions, existing simply as colleagues rather than the friends we had been. I did not see him again until he showed up at the opera house to tell me about you."

"Me?" Christine said, eyes wide in the dark encasement of the carriage.

"He asked for my help. Despite my hesitation otherwise, despite our past, I decided to give it. I never thought I would see him again, let alone help his future bride dress for her wedding." Madame Giry turned to fully stare at her, eyes two pinpricks of hard light. "You asked if Erik Voclain was a good man."

"I did, madame."

"My answer is this: I believe he will be a good man to _you_. And upon this earth, that is the best you can hope for."

* * *

**Next time: a wedding and a wedding night. Finally, this fic starts to earn its rating!**


	8. Chapter 7: consummate

**We start to earn some M-rating here!**

* * *

**Chapter 7: consummate**

Beneath the main floor of his manor home, Erik paced.

At this moment, Christine was getting dressed, pulling upon layers of soft ivory silk, cladding her body in a wedding gown fit for the beautiful woman she was. Erik passed the time by imagining her going through these motions, Madame Giry at her side, but when his mind steered toward too much detail, he went to his piano and played furiously, trying to distract himself.

Then he paced more, his long legs crossing the ample space of his underground rooms. Some edge of his consciousness acknowledged when Darius walked down the spiral stairs and came to stand along the wall, the other vampyre now a meddlesome presence within his domain.

Vampyre. The word still made his empty stomach roil with distaste. Indeed, he remembered the feeling of vomiting, though the taste had faded from memory, when he had first learned of the blood-suckers, the flesh-eaters, the undead who feasted upon the living. In his memory, it had been Daroga who was standing there, Daroga who was the reason he had even gone to Mazandaran, Daroga who had tried to warn him and gotten his own family killed because of it.

Erik had not wanted to believe the truth of his companion then, and his denial had been his downfall. He still did not want to believe it of himself.

He heard Darius's words intruding along the edge of his thoughts: "You need to feed, maestro."

Erik had not yet had a vial this evening, had he? But before he could seek an answer, a quiet thumping caught his keen hearing. He stalked over to Darius and drew up short of being within arm's length. Under Erik's studied gaze, a deep red blossomed across Darius's cheeks, the hint of fresh blood under the surface. The reaction was… more than a normal feeding would have caused.

"You have bonded," Erik said.

Darius's dark eyes widened, the pupils large. "Not fully. One moment, I was sleeping at Lucas's side. The next, I awoke with this pain in my chest. I have tried to ignore it, but I seem to have no control."

"You would not."

"Do… do you know of bonding?"

His fangs had not extended, but Erik bared his teeth anyway, a warning not to further broach the topic. "I cannot mentor you in this, youngling. I am not your master. I am not your _sire_. If Daroga ever decides to grace us with his presence once more, perhaps he can offer you more guidance. All I can do is tell you what I know. You have bonded. It seems you have finished the process, yes?"

"Almost, maestro." Darius began to shake. "I know you are not my sire, but I need your blessing all the same."

Erik did not want this on the eve of his wedding. He did not believe in many of the old ways; he had turned his back on so much of the culture of their kind in his quest to separate himself from the reality of his own situation. Yet he knew Darius was quite different.

Unlike Erik, Darius had _chosen_ to become a vampyre.

"I will do as you ask," Erik said.

He fisted his hands to stem the tide of his own churning emotions. He had sworn twenty years ago never to take the blood of a human, never to sink his teeth directly into the source. His vow meant nothing in the wake of circumstance. As the oldest vampyre here, he was duty-bound to see Darius's bonding to the end.

Without his aid, Darius would not make it to the next nightfall.

"You cannot turn him," Erik said, taking another step closer. "You are a generation removed from her, but if you stretch her bloodline into another, she is guaranteed to notice."

Twin tears of clear fluid spilled from Darius's eyes, another sign that he was engorged with blood. "I know, maestro."

"Then give me his wrist."

Darius turned and motioned into the darkness of the spiral staircase that led above. His human entered the room, and for a moment, instincts surged within Erik, whispers of violence and intrusion. Prey had stepped into the room, had infiltrated his sanctuary from daylight.

Erik bit his own tongue, the pain drawing him back from the edge and allowing him to refocus. Lucas was of a height with Darius with the same slim built and bright, dark eyes. His skin was lighter, his hair pale like Christine's.

Christine. Erik was to marry this very night. The thought of this delay made his anger rise, even as he understood why Darius had brought this up now. Sometimes we could not control timing, and if Darius had waited until tomorrow, Erik might refuse under obligation to his new bride.

Erik squared his shoulders. "Do you understand what we are?" he asked the human.

Lucas gave an easy smile, though a sheen of nervous sweat was visible upon his upper lip. "I do, monsieur. Darius has explained much to me. I love him. I do this freely."

As a human, Lucas did indeed have a choice. However, once a vampyre's heart began to beat, they had no choice but to finish the rites.

"Very well," Erik said. "Give me your wrist."

Lucas did so without hesitation. His wrist lay, a column of bone and sinew and blood, in Erik's broad hand. Erik curved his thumb over the incline of the young man's palm to hold him in place. Even weakened as he was, the touch was all it would take to overcome the human's frailer strength.

He would not take much, just enough to mark him with his thick fangs, enough to show that he had been accepted into Erik's clan. Later tonight, Darius would mark him in the same spot, widen what would become two circular scars upon his wrist. He was breaking his vow not to take from the vein ever again, but it would only be for a few seconds. He was so parched, even this much would do little more than give him a night's worth of strength.

Lucas's pulse fluttered under his thumb. Darius shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his instincts to protect what was his warring with his desire to see this ritual completed.

"Count to five," Erik said. "Then pry me off by any means necessary."

"Yes, maestro," Darius said.

Erik struck.

* * *

Christine had learned more about Erik Voclain during the carriage ride to the chapel than in the weeks beforehand. From what Madame Giry had revealed, he had already lived a lifetime before she had met him. His time in Mazandaran. His years at the Palace Garnier. Years of experiences. Madame Giry was older than her father, and yet Erik did not seem this aged to Christine. He was older than her, to be sure, but if he was that old, would she not have realized?

She knew so little about her intended, and the thought should have frightened her. Instead, she felt heady about what was to come. He had stories within him that he could tell her, for Madame Giry had likely only revealed the thin surface of what Erik had experienced. Christine wanted to hear about his life before her. She wanted to know_ him_.

Their drive to the chapel ended, the carriage pulling to a stop. A thin mist had dampened the outside of the cab, the cobblestone walkway also gleaming with the sheen of it in the lamplight. Madame Giry assisted her with her long train, and soon they were both indoors.

The chapel smelled of wooden pews and old candle wax. It was an old Lutheran church, as per her father's tradition. Her family had never been very religious, but in times of ceremony, their Swedish customs took precedence. Two simple sconces lit up the receiving area just within the doors. She could hear voices murmuring within.

Darius scurried ahead of them, a jump in his step. He soon returned. "They are ready," he said, "whenever you are."

"I am ready," Christine said, and she was, as ready as she was ever going to be.

Madame Giry adjusted Christine's veil across her shoulders – she had not wanted anything over her face. Then she careful arranged Christine's train so it cascaded in gentle ivory waves behind her. "My role here is completed," she said. "Send me a message at the opera house if you have need of me. Go on, dear," she added, and she stepped back.

_I am ready¸ _Christine thought again to herself.

She squared her shoulders. Darius handed her a bouquet of white and pale pink blossoms, greenery flowing down her fingers. "You are beautiful, mademoiselle," he said, his lips quirking in a smile, "if I may be so bold to say so."

She flushed. "Thank you, Darius."

He moved to the door and pulled it open for her, revealing the small chamber within. A simple chandelier lit up the high stone walls. A few dozen pews angled toward a single aisle. Christine took a deep, steadying breath and moved forward on unsteady legs.

Charles sat at a pew closest to the door. He rose when he saw her, grasping onto the back of the wooden bench to support his weight. His brown eyes glowed with happiness. He outstretched a hand to her. "Daughter-mine. Let a father walk you down the aisle?"

"Yes, Papa," she said through a throat suddenly clenched with emotion.

Charles offered an elbow to her, and she switched the bouquet to one hand so she could grasp it. She was not certain whom supported whom down the aisle, but she was grateful to have her father's warmth at her side. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Darius move to stand closer to the front of the chapel, joining three other men standing there. Christine did not recognize two of them, and she guessed they must be the city official and the Lutheran pastor.

Erik himself stood directly at the end of the aisle, his white-gloved hands hanging loosely at his sides. He wore his usual black suit, absent the intimidating cloak. He was head and shoulders above the other men, who hung away from him as though unable to come closer. His hair was combed carefully back, not a piece out of place. His face was somber, the mask once again hidden behind his crafted illusion of pale skin, a straight nose, and high cheekbones.

Christine felt the piercing throb of intrusion settle once again inside her mind. Perhaps he should have warned her that he would have to shield himself from others during their wedding; however, she was not surprised that he was using his glamour. The face that turned toward her might not be his, and indeed, she might not have ever seen his true face, but his eyes of warm gold settled upon her with a familiarity she had come to know.

It took only a moment to cross the space between them. Papa kissed her on the cheek and sat in a pew near her. And then she was facing Erik fully.

Christine was aware of snippets of what happened next. She heard first the representative of the mayor saying a few words, and then a pen was pressed into her hand, which she used to sign her name. A part of her knew this meant she was married, that the ceremony with the pastor was only a formality at her father's behest. The old man came to stand between her and Erik, and she heard him recite the usual words. At some point, Erik's lips formed the words "I do," and then she heard herself echo them, her voice sounding far away.

And then Erik's hands drew hers from her sides. The fine silk of his gloves was soft and cool against her skin, so different from the warmth of her father's hands. Her ears were ringing, her head starting to hurt from the closeness of his glamour. The firm touch of his hands kept her grounded enough to notice when he slipped a ring upon one of her fingers, but she did not look at it. More words were exchanged, her mouth somehow forming the shapes, her throat finding the right sounds.

She heard the minister say the words, "By God's will, I declare that you are now husband and wife."

Erik stepped forward, one of his knees pressing ever so slightly against her skirts. His hands tightened around hers as though afraid she might skitter away. She thought that he was going to kiss her, but he did not. He angled to her side, and his lips brushed dryly over her cheek before he quickly stepped back and released her hands.

She was let go, standing alone, until her father's clapping brought her back to the moment. He stood and enveloped her in a tight hug. She was married. She was now married.

"I am so proud of you, daughter-mine," Charles said in her ear.

"I love you, Papa," she managed to squeeze through her tightened throat.

She felt a hand upon the curve of her lower back, just above her bustle, an intimate gesture that startled her. She looked up to see that Erik had returned to her side, and the pressure of his hand upon her back as well as the firm set of his mouth indicated that he wished to leave. Christine had not attended many weddings, but didn't a reception of some kind usually follow the ceremony? These were the details that seemed to have been discussed without her because her father only smiled as though he had already known she would be whisked away immediately afterward.

"Papa?" she asked, eyebrows drawing together. "I… will see you in the morning?"

"Don't you worry about me, Christine," he said. "You need to focus on getting adjusted to your new life, and I will be moving into my room at the hospice. As soon as I am settled, I will contact you in a few days."

A few days? She had spent every day with her father for her entire life. They had never been separated, and certainly not after her mother had passed away. Christine wanted to protest, but Papa was shooing her away while Erik's hand upon her lower back grew more insistent.

"Come, wife," Erik said, voice low. "The night grows cold."

Why did this feel like a final moment together? Christine twisted away from her new husband and threw her arms around her father's neck.

Charles only have a quiet chuckle and hugged her back, then pulled her arms down and gently pushed her away. "Good night, dear daughter."

This time, Erik drew out a white-gloved hand to her, beckoning. She took it, his long fingers curling around her hand tightly enough that she knew it would be difficult to break free again. They made their way up the aisle. When they were about to step through the doors of the chapel, Christine looked back one more time. Her father was speaking with the representative of the mayor, their words easy and carefree, and it was not their actions that made Christine's stomach turn over with dread.

The Lutheran pastor stared at the new couple as they left. As soon as Erik stepped through the front door, he made the sign of the cross.

The sight shocked Christine, but she did not have much time to linger her thoughts upon why the man of God would feel compelled to do such a thing. Erik's grip on her hand was tight and sure, and he led her to a carriage parked just outside the chapel. Erik opened the door of the carriage with his free hand and ushered her inside. Christine did not notice that Darius had followed them until he was helping to gather up her gown's train.

Soon, she was alone with Erik inside the dark encasement of the cabin. Her ivory gown caught the light of passing street lamps, casting her slim body in a silvery glow. Her new husband sat stiffly at her side, his white gloves fisted upon the jut of his knees. His golden eyes kept flickering toward her, and she felt studied by them.

"You wear your mask again," she said, noticing its white shape in the darkness.

"Yes," Erik replied. "The glamour hurts your head, no? I took it down as soon as I was able."

"Thank you."

"Of course."

They lapsed back into silence. The wheels of the carriage creaked, and the horses' hooves skittered over the wet street.

Erik cleared his throat. "I will arrange for a driver to take you to your father in three days. He should be settled then."

"Thank you." Christine smoothed her hands down the silk of her gown. "The- the ceremony was lovely."

"Indeed, it was."

They spent the rest of the ride without speaking further. When they arrived back at his manor, Erik stepped out first, then again offered his hand to Christine. This time, he did not let go, leading her through the same door she had entered earlier that evening. Her heart began to pound, the sound thumping in her ears, as they made their way up the stairs to the bedroom where she had changed.

Here, Erik stopped. "Take some time to relax yourself," he intoned. "I will return within the hour."

Unable to do anything else, Christine nodded. Erik bent the tall black shape of his body over the hand he still held and pressed a kiss to her wrist. A shiver rippled up her spine. Unlike the kiss on her cheek back at the chapel, this touch of lips promised more to come.

As soon as Erik had left, Christine fumbled for the doorknob and nearly bolted inside her room. The leftover pieces of wedding gowns had been removed, but the bedroom still held the scent of the bath she taken mere hours before.

Erik had told her to relax; however, how could she possibly do such a thing? Her wedding had happened. Now it was time for her wedding _night_. She was a married woman, and she had all the responsibilities that came with such a title…

A silk wrapper had been laid across her bed, the white fabric dotted with tiny embroidered blue flowers. Should she change? Suddenly, she could not stand being within her wedding gown any longer. The buttons of her bodice gave way easily enough, but she soon felt herself compelled to free herself of her gown as soon as she could. She tore at the fastenings of the bustle and tossed the contraption across the chaise lounge, then nearly ripped apart the laces of her skirts until they puddled around her legs.

Standing in her underthings, she still felt too entrapped. Christine sucked in a deep breath, pressed her ribcage together, and undid the hook-and-eye clasps of her corset without loosening the ties. Without the constriction, she could breathe a bit easier.

The night air hit her skin. In the time she had been away, the fire had burned low in the hearth. She shed her chemise and quickly pulled on the wrapper, though the thin silk did little to ease her sudden shivering. The throw laid across the foot of the bed was made of fine knitted wool, and when she pulled the blanket around her shoulders, she felt a little warmer.

She made her way to the vanity and sat in front of the mirror. The candlelight in her room only highlighted her features, but she could see enough to begin to remove the pins from her hair. Madame Giry had used far too many that was necessary, and it took a long time to pluck each one free from her curly strands.

The glint upon her finger caught her eye in the mirror. She had forgotten all about the ring Erik had given her during their ceremony. It had a dainty golden band with etchings and tiny diamonds around her finger. A larger ovular sapphire sat in the middle of the setting with even more diamonds encrusted around the stone. She had to admit, it was a beautiful ring, the finest of it well-suited for her small finger. She would need to tell Erik she loved it when he returned.

She shivered again. It _had_ grown chilly in her room. She moved to the fireplace to see if she could stoke some life into the flames.

* * *

Erik wandered the hallways of his manor, staying as far from his new bride's room as he could manage. Most of the house was still in a state of disrepair. When he had first conceived of marrying this woman, he had thrown money at the place, hiring a team of workers to renovate as many rooms as possible. They had worked during the daylight hours so they rarely crossed paths with him, cutting and painting and hammering while he slumbered away deep beneath the earth.

As long as Christine did not venture into certain wings, she would see a house well-furnished and freshly painted, and he hoped his woman would find it pleasing.

His woman.

She was his. His Christine. He had formulated a plan and seen it to fruition, and now she was his in the eyes of the human world. He wanted to make her his in the manner of his own kind, to sink his teeth into her pale skin, to take her blood into himself. But he could not.

He would never get to do such a thing to her. And even if he could, he would never let himself defile her in such a way.

Christine had been his focus for this past month, and now he had her. However, if he wanted to keep her, he needed to make her his in every way possible. If he could not have her in the vampyre way, he would at least claim her in the way she no doubt expected. Right now, his bride waited for him to complete his duties as her husband.

What she did not know was that this was impossible.

And so he paced. While he stalked his way around his manor upon long legs, he was well aware when Darius returned. The younger vampyre was a silent presence along his peripheral vision, simply there if he was needed. An hour passed. Erik felt, not for the first nor last time, a longing for Daroga's incessant push of opinion, but it was a moment quickly risen and gone in a flash.

He walked with practiced slowness to Christine's door once again. He could hear quiet noises within, the rustle of a human moving about. He lifted a hand and knocked, and the noises ceased at once.

"Just a moment," he heard his bride say. Then, "Come in."

He opened the door. She knelt near the hearth of the fireplace, and she had clearly just tightened the belt of her wrapper and neatly tucked the hem around her knees. Her eyes widened just slightly, enough that he noticed her unease at the sight of him. A streak of black ash darkened one spot on her chin.

"I… the fire went out," she said, gesturing with a slim hand at the embers burning low. "I tried to light it, but I am not so used to such large fireplaces."

"I will take care of it," he said. He crossed the room and stretched out a gloved hand to her. She hesitated only a moment before taking it, and he gently pulled her to her feet. "You are chilled. Go sit upon the bed and pull the blanket tighter around yourself."

She did as he requested. As he coaxed flames from the embers and built the fire back to a roaring blaze, he was aware of her at his back. The heat of the fire was too much upon him to be comfortable, but humans were different. His bride needed warmth that he would not be able to provide.

"Thank you," she said, watching him straighten with bright sky-blue eyes. Her ring caught the firelight and glinted. He had chosen the sapphire in the center because the brilliant color reminded him of her eyes – they were that same piercing shade of blue.

He studied her a moment. Her hands clutched the edges of the blanket, and she had pulled her feet upon the bed. She was hidden in a pile of cloth, the layers a barrier between the two of them.

"You are afraid," he said.

She shifted slightly. Two spots of pink appeared on her cheekbones. "No, not afraid," she said softly. "Nervous, perhaps. I… have never done what comes next, obviously."

"Neither have I."

The words rose out of his mouth, unbidden but true. What was it about this woman that caused him to toss aside his reservations, to tell a human facts about himself he would otherwise keep hidden? Over time, he felt as though he might spill all his secrets to her, and suddenly, _he_ was the one afraid.

Her eyes widened. The two spots of pink deepened in a rose-tinted blush. "Then we will learn together?"

"We will learn together," he agreed.

She held out a beckoning hand to him, and he was pulled closer to her along an invisible string. This time, he was the one slipping his hand into hers. His knees brushed against the edge of the bed. She took his bony appendage within the warm cocoon of her hands and plucked at the hem of his glove.

"May I remove these?" she asked.

Oh, that he could have a physical reaction to this gorgeous woman before him. His pulse might have raced then, his belly might have twisted with dread, his heart might have pounded. Instead, he merely stood there, a statue of frozen sinew and deadened flesh.

"Christine," he pleaded. He moved his dry tongue within his mouth. Only hours earlier, he had drawn from the vein of Darius's beloved, but those few mouthfuls had been so little. Even though he felt stronger, more stable, he knew his skin was pale and lifeless, his veins shriveled and prevalent under his dry skin. What would happen when she saw him? Truly saw _him_?

Her thumb was sweeping over the fabric of his glove, a soothing gesture that only made him want to feel her touch elsewhere. How foolish he had been! He could not provide anything for her than this husk of what was once a man. Even when he had been human, his appearance had made woman shriek with fright. As a vampyre, he had only grown more hideous.

"Christine," he said again. "I… am not handsome. Under these gloves, under these clothes, you will not find anything pleasing."

A small crinkle appeared between her delicate eyebrows. "I agreed to marry you, Erik. Don't you think I knew who I was marrying?"

Oh, she might have. But the reality would be so much worse than what she might have imagined.

"You are my husband," she said. "I am your wife. In this room, there- there is only the two of us."

Her thumb slipped beneath his glove, her soft skin sliding over his wrist. If she lingered too long there, she might notice that no heartbeat pulsed within him, but she moved on, using her thumb to draw down the silk of his glove. And he let her, gods help him, he let her. She stripped off his glove, exposing his long fingers with their thick, bony knuckles. Across the back of his hand, blue veins spread web-like under the skin.

If she was appalled, she hid her reaction well. He could see the distress in the flare of her nostrils, the pinch in the corners of her eyes, but she let little other sign escape. To his surprise, she took his hand in both of hers, bent, and pressed a kiss to his palm. The shock of her warm lips spread up his arm.

"You are a marvel," he murmured. He took his ungloved hand and cupped her cheek, wanting to feel more of her softness, of her warmth.

She leaned into his touch, her eyes closing for a moment, eyelashes fanning across her cheeks. "I am hardly that," she said, a smile plucking at her full lips.

"Oh, but you are. I have been captivated by you from the moment I saw you in the park." He allowed his fingertips to delve into the edges of her hair, unbound as her golden curls were. "You are so full of life, Christine. Your bright spirit never ceases to surprise me." When she did not pull way, he slid his fingers through her hair, marveling at the softness. "And you are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen."

She fully blushed then, her cheeks deepening to a dark red. "Would you kiss me?"

He wanted to, so badly. His fangs, even when not descended, were two sharp points in his mouth. He would need to be careful.

He leaned over her, one knee pressing atop the bed, the angle forcing her head to tilt back. The long column of her throat made his instincts surge, but he held them back, the ever-present hunger in his belly dulled by Lucius's blood. He delved both hands into the abundant curls of her hair, his grip forcing her head even further back. His thumbs curled around her chin, his white glove smearing the ash from the fireplace she had smudged there.

"Do you want this, Christine?" he asked, his thin mouth not far from hers.

"Y-Yes," she whispered, her sweet breath hot upon what little of his skin was exposed.

He pressed his lips against hers, the first kiss he had ever willingly initiated, careful to keep his mask from touching her, careful to hide the presence of his fangs. Both of their mouths were closed and so the kiss was chaste, quickly sought and quickly parted. Christine's hands had reached up to grasp his shoulders, but she pulled him closer instead of pushing him away.

"More?" she asked, and he gave it to her, pressed his lips to hers again, his inexperience disguised by her own. He felt her out, slanted his lips to take her more fully against him, always mindful of that which he hid from her. He was attuned to her every reaction, the way her back began to arch, the way her blood began to move more quickly in her veins.

He needed to taste her, just a little. He broke from her mouth to trail his lips down her jaw to where her pulse throbbed at her neck. The position was dangerous, but although he wanted her, he felt powerful and in control of himself. His tongue flicked out and lapped at her pulse, tasting the salt of her skin. She was heaven in his mouth, and he allowed himself one more taste before he drew back to her lips. She was panting.

"Oh, Erik," she breathed. "Let me see you?"

He saw her hands reach for his mask. His reaction was swift, fingers curling unapologetically around her dainty wrists and holding fast, not loosening even when she winced. He had become too lost in her that he had nearly let down his guard and allowed the unthinkable. If she had taken off his mask… he could not think about what he might have done to her then.

"Once you have seen," he said, voice a low growl, "you will not ever be able to erase that image from your mind!"

Christine squirmed against his hold, and he knew he was holding too tightly, but he dared not let go. "I- I am sorry," she said, hiccupping on a sudden sob. "I shan't do it again."

No, she would not. How could he have forgotten for a moment of what he was, of who he was? All his life, he had been reminded of his exterior. The space of his wedding bed would be no different.

He switched the hold of her wrists to his gloved hand, freeing his other to hoist the two of them fully atop the mattress. Christine gasped at the sudden vulnerable position, one of his knees between hers, entrapping her to the bed by her gown. His bulk rose above her, his free hand traveling to find new places to explore.

She was his wife, and he was her husband. Vampyre though he may be, hideous though he may appear, he would have what was his.

* * *

**More M-rated scene ahead...**


	9. Chapter 8: finish

**This chapter earns a dubcon warning for blurry lines of consent.**

* * *

**Chapter 8: finish**

Their first kiss had been soft against her mouth, his lips thin but pliable. He had touched her gently, and she had surged with hope that this night would not be as terrible as she had feared. Even two people who were nearly strangers could find a way to come together in the reality of marriage's wake.

But then the moment had turned sour, pooling dread in the pit of her stomach. His knee had rucked up between her thighs, pinning her in place by the skirt of her wrapper. The dark shape of his large body covered hers, although he did not settle his weight upon her. One of his hands held both of her wrists, the grip tight enough that she could not break free, his strength overwhelming.

When he rose up above her, she thought to flail, to try to break the hold on her wrists. She bucked beneath him, another sob wrenching from her throat, but he was as immoveable as stone. She heard herself babble another apology, and her words might as well have been silent for the effect they had. She felt his free hand rake down her side, his bony fingers gripping her hip before sliding up her ribs to cup her breast with his broad palm.

"Erik!" she cried, shocked at the sudden invasion. This was not at all how she wanted this night to go, to be taken against her will by her husband. What had changed between them?

He bent down, and she felt the scrape of sharp teeth along the curve of her throat. He had done this before, but earlier, it had felt more like a soft kiss, a caress of lips. Now, the action felt more like a threat, a warning before the true biting strike. The act of a predator encircling its prey.

Once, when she had been little, her father had insisted they press on upon horseback as they tried to reach the next town before night. They should have stopped and made camp, but Papa had been so sure that they were close enough to keep going. Soon after dark had fallen, howls had begun to permeate the chilly night air. Wolves grew close enough in the woods for Christine to see their glowing eyes. Her first instinct had been to kick her horse into a gallop, her own breaths coming out in panicked white lungfuls.

Papa had grabbed onto her reins to keep her close to him and slowed them both to a trot. "If we run, daughter mine, they will chase."

Eventually, the wolves had grown bored or realized they were too large of a target, and their gray shadows had disappeared back into the woods. It had taken a long time for Christine's heart to stop racing, but Papa had been right. Attempting to run would only have triggered the chase.

Erik's free hand tilted her head to the side, stretching her neck out further for the perusal of his teeth. How could human teeth feel so sharp? One more ounce of pressure, and she was certain he would draw blood. He was a wolf bent over his prey, and she the bird caught in his claws. He had only begun to act like this after she had tried to take off his mask…

Christine drew in a sharp breath. This was a man who created an illusion, a glamour, of no mask because he did not want anyone to even known he wore such a covering. He had allowed her to see his mask, even to touch it, and how had she reacted? She had tried to remove it! She had betrayed his trust, what little he had given her. Of course he was holding her hands prison; he did not want to give her any opportunity to betray him again.

She went limp, relaxing her muscles, opening her palms so they lay against the bedding. She had drawn up her knees in some defense against his intruding thigh between hers, but now she slowly lowered her legs to the bed, her ankles dangling off the edge.

Once she was certain that her body was no longer a mass of defensive muscles, she focused upon her breathing. In she dragged one breath, and out she let it slowly stream through her nose. Again, she breathed deeply, slowly, and only after she felt her racing heart began to slow did she add her husband's name within her sighs.

"Erik…" she breathed. "Erik…"

The fingers digging into her throat and forcing her head at an angle eased, giving her enough movement to bring her eyes around to try to see him. He rose above her, and their eyes met. She had always thought his eyes were the color of gold, but they were darker now, the molten color of a flame burning hot. His pupils were enormous.

"Erik," she whispered again.

He pushed words past clenched teeth. "I… I will let go of your wrists."

"I will leave them where they are," she promised.

He eased his fingers open and sat up even more. Christine tried not to cry out as blood rushed back into her hands, sending painful tingles shooting through her. Erik waited above her, seeming to give her time to adjust, and then he pulled her wrapper free of his knee.

"Roll over," he said.

Christine hitched a breath. He wanted her… he was going to… Her thoughts spun out of control, the last month churning as she tried to sort through her complicated feelings about the situation in which she currently found herself. If she refused, what would he do?

She hesitated a few more beats, but Erik did nothing more than hover in place. For another moment, she studied his face. They were so close that she could see the edges of his mask, his own pale skin ringing around the eyeholes, slightly drawn inward to match the frown upon his lips. He had his mouth clamped closed as though afraid to let something out if he relaxed, and she wished that he would simply _kiss_ her again.

Whatever had first been between them had fled in the wake of her attempt to remove his mask, and so Christine rolled over. She kept her arms above her head as much as she could, in the position he had placed them. The silk of the bedding was soft beneath her cheek as she turned her head to the side. All she could see was Erik's white-gloved hand planted near her head.

She felt him shift on his knees until his hips were resting near hers instead of on top of her, his hand being replaced with an angular elbow. Perhaps she should have felt comforted by the removal of his knee between hers, but this position only allowed him freer access to her dressing gown. She felt him fist the thin material as though to wrench it up her legs, and she was called into sharp focus upon the fact that she wore little else beneath it than her stockings and drawers.

His hand froze – in indecision? – and then relaxed. She felt him smooth down her hem, and then his fingers were touching the ends of her hair, a gentle tugging upon her curls that made her shiver.

"Your hair is the color of the sun," he murmured.

She wet her lips. "Erik…"

He stroked her hair, then his hand traveled down her side, his fingertips brushing the side of her breast. "I will make you mine tonight, wife, but I will not harm you. You do believe this?"

Despite herself, she squirmed, unsure if she wanted more of that intimate touch or if she should shy away. "You seek my trust in you," she said. "Yet you will not trust me?"

He froze at that, and her heart surged with hope that he would allow her to roll back over, that he would press his lips to hers again, that she could hold him to her with her arms.

"Would that it was so truly simple," he said at last.

Christine's chest wrenched with a deep sob, and she turned her face to tourniquet any tears that might try to get free. He would not hurt her, he had said, and she truly believed that he would stop if she but said the word. Yet she did not want him to stop. She wanted this night from him for reasons she could not quite understand, and she would see it through in whatever way he needed from her.

His fingers delved deeper between her and the bedding, caressing the side of her breast, catching the peak of her nipple and drawing her thoughts back into focus. Something formed within her, a sensitivity she had not felt before. She wished he would linger longer there, but he moved on, his hand sliding down to her hip. Too quickly, he found the hem of her wrapper and pulled it to her waist, exposing her drawers and stockings. Even still covered as she was, she felt far too exposed to his intense golden gaze, and she knew with his hawk-like perception that he was taking in every curve of her body.

His hand roamed down her backside, his touch light but enough to map the rise of her shape. She held still as he dragged his fingers down one of her thighs, tickling every so slightly at the back of her knee as he found the silk bow there and untied the top of her stocking. His bare fingers met her sensitive skin, but the shock of cold momentarily distracted her from any embarrassment. His fingers were as cold as ice.

"You are so warm here," he said, long fingers wrapping around her calve. "Are you this warm everywhere else?"

Christine's cheeks lit up with a hot blush. Several different replies threaded through her mind, and none found their way to her tongue. When Erik began to trace his way back up her thigh, she pressed one of her hands to her mouth to stifle any cries. This was moving too fast, and as his cold fingers found the opening in her drawers, she squeezed her eyes shut.

"Please."

Please… please what? She was not sure what she wanted anymore – if she wanted him to stop, or to continue, or slow down, or get it over with. Her clothing shifted, and then the pad of his finger caressed the slit between her legs. The shock of intimacy made her gasp, the iciness of that finger an intruding jolt that made her tilt her hips in a way she had never before.

His voice spoke, low and curling around her ear like smoke, "Why, yes you are, dear Christine."

She shuddered. His finger glided up and down her folds, the movement turning slick. The coldness of that finger began to thaw against her warmth, letting her focus more upon the slow but determined exploration of her it sought. When it delved inside her, she braced herself for pain, but there was only a feeling of foreign intrusion, of a dull fullness that made her ache deep inside.

And then his finger was gone, and she heard the rustle of clothing behind her. Erik moved upon his knees, and she felt more of his weight settle against her back.

"Open for me, wife," he murmured in her ear.

She pressed her knuckles to her mouth, her teeth scraping against the soft flesh of her lips, and she did as he said, parting her legs enough that he could settle knees between them. Again, she felt the intimate press of him against her, this time a larger presence than before, still as cold as his finger had been. How could all of him be so cold? He had not removed any of his clothing, but the smooth glide of his skin on hers was unmistakable.

"Erik-"

He paused, barely within her. "Am I hurting you?"

He was not, and she shook her head. Without speaking further, he continued his press into her, unceasing until she felt fuller than before, stretched open deep within in a way she had never been before. A slight burn made her eyes water, but she could handle it, did not have to tell him to stop. He slid out almost entirely, then slid inside again, the burn increasing like a point on her heel rubbed too much. Twice more he penetrated her, and with the last, he gave a low groan and pulled free of her fully.

The aching feeling lingered within her as he readjusted his clothing and stepped off the bed. She curled her legs up, otherwise not moving, her lip now numb against her knuckle.

"Dear Christine," he said softly, "my brave wife."

Was that brave, what she had just done? She had submitted to her husband in the way a wife should, yet she had truthfully done little more than lay there. He stood behind her, out of her field of vision, his eyes burning into her. After this act, how could she still feel they were strangers?

She heard his footsteps go to the door. "I will take my leave," he said. "Good night."

She wanted to call him back, to at least rise up to look at him while he turned the handle. Maybe if he saw her face, he would stay. Maybe if he hesitated to leave, she could gather enough courage to push past whatever barrier was still between them.

Instead, she swallowed down her desires and lay still. The door opened and closed, and she knew she was alone.

* * *

Erik hovered only a moment outside of her door, long enough to hear the soft cries that began to spill out of his bride. He clenched his jaw, fisted his gloved hand, and forced himself away from her door. He made his legs move down the hallway to the recesses of his basement, his movements jerky but effective. Only once there did he halt and lean against the rough stone wall of his tomb. _Monster_, he thought_. You will never be anything but._

He grasped his mask with his gloved hand and flung it toward his bed where it landed upon the mattress with a dull thud. He brought his bare hand to his face, realizing he had left his glove behind in _her_ room, and held the first two fingers of his hand to the cavern that was his nose. Her scent wafted up, and relief nearly buckled his knees. He smelled no blood, which meant he had been careful enough with her.

He retrieved a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped his fingers clean lest he seem any viler of a creature than he already was.

Deliberately noticeable footfalls on the stairs made him spin away from the entrance to his chambers. "Leave me be, fledgling," he snarled.

Darius ignored him. His new heartbeat was loud in Erik's ears. Erik detested the sound, envied the sound, wanted to rip it out of his ribcage. Instead, he kept his bare face angled away from the other vampyre as Darius went to the bed and retrieved his mask.

"Bored of your bonded already?" Erik said snidely, snatching the mask from Darius's outstretched, offering hand. With his face covered again, he turned to confront his ward.

"I came to gather a few things I needed," Darius said, ignoring the jab. "Your threatening energy is seeping all throughout the house. You need to fight, and I have blood enough to let you."

Erik revealed his fangs, elongated as they were. He had held them back while he had been with Christine, but now they were engorged, longing to take the blood his new bride. Denied as they were, they thrummed with deadly want.

"I will rip you apart."

"You won't," Darius said, folding his arms casually.

Erik balled his hands into loose fists, his fingers angling into claws. He wanted to hurt with his hands as much as his fangs. Darius was right – his aura leaked out of him in waves of murderous intent. Any of their kind nearby would have sensed the need for a fight. Darius had known exactly what might happen when he stepped down here.

"I am not to be tested, fledgling. Not this night."

Darius's dark eyes softened. "I know what it is like, maestro, to have someone and want them desperately in a way you cannot have them. You cannot make her yours as a human. You cannot make her yours as a vampyre. You will tear yourself apart if you do not seek relief in some other way. Let me do this for you. Let me do this for Christine."

Erik snarled again, fangs lengthening to either side of his thin lips. "I would never hurt her."

"I know, maestro," Darius said. He removed his coat and draped it over the bench of the grand piano. Then he loosened the cravat at his neck and turned back, rolling up his shirtsleeves upon toned light brown arms. "Maybe you will find me more of a match than you think?"

Erik could feel his control loosening. He hated this part of himself most of all, the instincts to hunt, to kill, that rose unbidden within him. Darius was right, and perhaps that most of all enraged him tonight – he needed to release this energy one way or another.

"Unless you have been secretly training these past twenty years," Erik said, "I will be returning you to Lucas in need of a long draught. I hope he has blood enough left for you to heal."

Erik unfastened his cloak and let it fall to the floor. Then he removed his other glove and also let it fall. He did not bother with any other clothing. Despite Darius's bold words, there would be only one vampyre winning this fight tonight. Erik had already been a seasoned fighter before he had arrived in Mazandaran, and his years in the East had only taught him more ways to survive.

Darius widened his stance. "Don't go easy on me."

Erik replied by easing his tall body into his own fighter posture. Darius's lofty words were only for show. Of course, Erik would go easy on him, as he always did. Darius would still be alive come sunrise, after all… or at least as alive as a vampyre could be.

* * *

Christine awoke to a sudden burst of sunlight, which caused her to squint in pain. It was accompanied by the sound of curtains being flung open along their rods. She pulled an arm over her face with a groan and tried to bury herself back into the covers.

She heard a little gasp. "My apologies, madame!" said a young voice, more a bird-like squeak. The curtains flapped again, and the stream of light falling across her bed dimmed.

Christine blinked open her eyes and peeked above the blanket. A young woman stood across the room near the windows. She wore a simple working gown with an apron covering the front. Her blonde hair, far lighter than Christine's, was tied back in a messy bun of ringlet curls. Christine watched as the woman went back to tending the fire, which she soon coaxed into a roaring flame.

The young woman wiped her hands on her apron, then took a large jar and poured fresh water into the basin near the vanity. Then she came to stand near Christine's bed. Two spots of red appeared upon her pale cheeks.

"I am so sorry again, madame," she said, giving a graceful curtsy. "I should have thought better of the curtains."

Christine swallowed, mouth dry from sleep. "Who… who are you?"

"Meg Giry, at your service."

"Giry?" Christine relaxed a bit at the familiar name and rose upon an elbow. "Are you related to Madame Giry?"

The young gave an easy, friendly smile. "She's my mother."

"Oh!"

"How about I go fetch your tea tray, and we can chat more then."

"Tea sounds perfect."

It did. Christine's throat felt rough, as though she had been screaming in her sleep. She waited until Meg Giry had left the room before trying to sit up fully. Her body was sore, likely a result from her restless night of sleep, but she ached in new places too. She felt twinges of pain in the bones of her wrists, but she saw no marks upon them. During what had happened last night, _he_ had been vigilant enough not to leave lasting damage.

Last night.

Christine was a bride no longer – she was a married woman, a _madame_ with a husband, an estate, and a new life. Her father had gone to live at a home for the medical infirm, and she now lived here, in Erik's home, in _her_ new home.

She swung her feet over the edge of the bed. Slippers awaited her there, although she did not remember setting them out herself. She still wore her wrapper, but her stockings were loosened and hanging around her calves, so she straightened them before pulling on her slippers and standing. Walking over to the washbasin, she cupped the cool water and splashed her face.

A married woman looked back at her from the mirror. She examined her reflection more closely and saw a few red marks upon her neck – imprints of teeth. Her face flashed hot. Erik had not broken the skin, and doubtless the marks would fade by the end of the day, but the visible reminder of last night made her grab a knit blanket to wrap around her shoulders, hiding the spots.

A knock sounded upon the door. "It is me, madame," Meg Giry said.

"Come in," Christine replied.

Meg swung open the door with her foot and nudged it closed behind her. She carried a large tray laden with tea, fruit, and little pastries, which she set on a low table near the fireplace. Christine followed upon shaky legs and sat in one of the armchairs, thankful for the warmth on her face. Her hands shook as she tried to grasp the teapot.

"Oh, here, let me," Meg Giry said, gently taking the pot from her. "My mother and Monsieur Voclain worked out an agreement for me to come here each day and be your maidservant."

"I didn't know," Christine said.

"Maman isn't exactly known for her forthright communication," Meg said, tossing a wink. "It was my idea, actually. I could use a little extra coin before we move at the end of the year."

"Madame Giry said you are getting married."

"I am! Milk or sugar, madame?"

"Both, please. And call me Christine. I have never had a maid before, and we seem about the same age, after all."

"If you want when it is just us."

"I do." When Meg just stood there after making her a cup of tea, Christine gestured at the full tray. "Please sit and eat with me. I won't tell if you won't."

Meg flashed another wide smile and obliged, sitting in the other armchair. She piled three sugar cubes in her cup and poured far too much cream. "I am here from nine until two, and my main purpose is to see to any comforts you need. As I understand it, Monsieur Voclain has someone else clean the manor twice a month. He has also hired someone to send over your meals for lunch and dinner. But I can tidy your room for you, take your clothes to a cleaner, and run any errands you might need."

Christine took a sip of her tea and then frowned. "Someone will deliver my dinner? Am I not to eat with my husband then?"

"I'm afraid I am simply the messenger," Meg said, shrugging. "My mother said he works long hours. I did see a sealed envelope on your nightstand, but I didn't touch it."

Christine glanced over at the bed. Yes, there was the note as Meg had said. She turned back around and cupped her tea to warm her fingers. The fire crackled before them. She appreciated that she had someone sociable and her own age to talk to, but this was not at all how she had imagined her first day as a wife would unfold. Would she truly spend her days waking to an empty bed and sit and eat in a dining room alone?

After a while of silence, Meg set down her cup and stood. "How about I give you some time to wake?" she said, smoothing down her apron. "I will return later to collect the tray and help you dress."

"Thank you," Christine said softly.

The door opened and closed behind her, much like it had last night, leaving her alone once again. It was only after her tea had grown cold in her hands that she realized tears had coursed down her cheeks and already dried there.

* * *

**I hope there are happier times for Christine ahead...**


	10. Chapter 9: let

**I hope you enjoy the longer chapter! This is a bit of a turning point for our couple. The plot will be picking up quickly from here. :) Thank you so much to everyone who reviews. You keep me going!**

* * *

**Chapter 9: let**

Christine was not used to being alone, nor was she used to idleness. These two things combined were enough to stir up restlessness within her.

Once she had calmed, Meg had helped her dress in a light blue frock with black stripes upon the sleeves and down the front of the skirt's pleats. It was a lovely day gown, and one she had not chosen herself with Madame Giry – she had found a wardrobe full of gowns in her size.

Meg Giry was pleasant enough company. Christine followed her around in the morning hours, learning much about how the Girys had first became involved in the Palais Garnier. Meg gladly fed Christine's fascination with the opera house, spinning tale after tale of gossip that happened behind the curtain.

However, Meg had eventually left to run errands. When Christine had asked to join, Meg had let her down gently. "Monsieur Voclain is paying me handsomely to see to your every need," Meg said with a wink.

Christine wished she felt as light-hearted about her situation as Meg seemed. It was her first day as a pampered wife, and when Meg left, the empty estate seemed a daunting venture. She had hoped Erik's letter left at her bedside would reveal more of how she could entertain herself, but instead his words could have been written to anyone for all the emotion they carried.

_Good morning, my dear Christine,_

_I hope you will find Mademoiselle Giry's employment agreeable. Allow her to complete any task for you as you wish. She will prepare your morning and midday meals. A chef I have hired will deliver your dinner each night. Please order whatever suits you._

_You may explore any wings of the estate which are unlocked for your perusal. I beseech you to avoid attempting to open any locked doors as they belong to sections of the house that are being renovated. For your safety, stay within the boundaries. I believe you will find ample enough space to discover._

_I shall return home promptly at 8:00, which is when we may then spend some time together._

_Yours,_

_Erik_

She had read the steady, sloping handwriting twice more, then tucked the letter into the nightstand beside her bed. Explore the boundaries of the estate, indeed.

When Meg left to complete her errands, Christine decided to follow the advice of Erik's letter and explore, beginning with the hallway outside her own room. Across the hall, she had found a beautifully built washroom complete with brass finishings, a luxury she had never had all to herself before.

The doors down the rest of that hallway on that side were locked, but next to her bedroom, she found a sitting room arranged with several comfortable chairs in a pale pink rose pattern. Supplies for knitting or croqueting were piled neatly atop table in one corner, and stationary donned a desk in the other. Shelves to either side of the small fireplace were stocked with French classics. She had been allowed little time in life for reading, and so she selected one promising novel and laid it upon the nightstand for later. Then, she returned and wrote her father a letter, keeping her tone light and assuring him that she was safe and happy. She hoped Meg would send it off for her.

The rest of the hallway on the same side of her bedroom was unlocked, but the rooms were empty save thick curtains and an errant piece of furniture here and there. From here, she had to cross into another part of the estate. This place seemed filled with a variety of spaces: winding staircases, long halls of mostly empty or locked rooms, or enormous white-stoned areas that echoed with her footfalls. She found the sitting room where Erik had played piano for her, and she lingered here fondly for a while.

In one section of the manor, Christine explored an area that seemed completely unfinished. The windows lining the staircase were blacked out with paint, something she only discovered when she tried to open the curtains to let in a little light. She traveled up two flights of stairs only to discover that the door at the top was firmly locked with multiple bolts.

"Locked more securely than the other rooms," she said aloud to herself.

She backtracked to the hallway door but paused there. Unlike the other tower staircases, this one also led downward.

A basement?

Christine laid a hand on the cool white stone of the tower. The stairs descended into darkness, but her curiosity won her over; it was the one place she had not yet explored. However, she was soon disappointed. Once she made her way down the stairs, keeping a careful hand on the wall, she met another door securely locked much like the one at the top of the spire.

Was this area also being renovated? Erik had said so of any locked doors in his letter. With a sigh, Christine returned to her wing of the estate and settled in to read the novel she had found.

Meg returned, but she merely stayed long enough to clean up after Christine's lunch, unpack the personal items she had purchased for Christine, and promise to mail the letter to Papa. Christine returned to her novel in front of the fire, pausing once again when the bell rang. It was a man in a stiff-looking suit who carried an enormous tray laden with covered dishes.

"Pardon me, Madame Voclain," he said, his voice deep. "Your dinner is served."

Eyes wide, Christine stepped aside and showed him to the nearby dining room. The man distributed the dishes, arranging them in some premade fashion with doilies, silverware, and even a tiny vase with two red roses.

He bowed low. "I am at your service, madame." He pulled out one of the chairs and waited for her to sit. She did so. "White or red?" he asked, seeking out two bottles of wine and showing them to her.

"Red," she said, not having a clue. She had drunk so little of the stuff that she did not know what was appropriate. The man nodded and poured her a glass. Then he proceeded to pull the cloches off each plate, revealing various rich dishes of meats, vegetables, and soups. There were at least two choices of each, arranged in a single portion for her. Then he straightened and stood off the side as though waiting should she need anything.

How awkward.

Christine supposed she should be grateful for the opportunity to dine on what looked like an expensive meal. However, she only felt immensely lonely. She would much preferred to have shared with meal with someone… especially her new husband.

She ate in silence, guessing wisely that her butler would not be up for conversation. When she was done, he covered the dirty dishes, cleaned up the table, and asked if she would like to keep the flowers. She did. She offered to tip him, which he refused, and soon she was alone again with little sign that he had ever been there.

The sun was beginning to set. Christine went back up to her room, belly full, drowsy from the two glasses of wine. She tried to read some more of her novel, but the warmth of the fire soon lured her to sleep.

* * *

Erik woke in the depths of his home, his senses probing him with the knowledge that he could safely go above. He lay still for a moment, listening to the stillness of the house above him. He could not hear Christine's presence, but her heart pumped with a persistent quietness that told him she was safe. Likewise, he sensed two other heartbeats: the slow thump of Darius's nearly-stirred heart and the quicker, livelier beat of his bonded human Lucas.

Joints popping as he stirred, Erik sat up and assessed the state of his body. Darius had learned much in the years they had sparred, but he still was little match to Erik's decades of fighting. Any injuries had already healed, no doubt aided by the draw upon Lucas's vein he had taken prior to marrying Christine. Darius would take another night to fully return to his strength, even with Lucas's blood.

As usual, he had rested fully clothed, but now he changed out of his rumpled suit into another of similar black color, this time opting for a waistcoat in dark gray with detailing in silver thread. He washed the horror that was his face, and freshened up his wasted, terrible body. And then he went in search of his new wife.

He found her in her bedroom, asleep, curled in a chair by a dying fire. A book lay askew at her feet, and he picked it up and set it soundlessly on the table beside her. Then he fetched a blanket and laid it across her as gently as he could.

Her lips parted with a gasp, and her eyes, so blue, opened wide and startled. He held up both hands, gloves a stark white in the dim light. "I woke you," he apologized.

Christine grasped the blanket in her lap, then blinked up at him. "Hello, Erik," she said, her little voice so soft, still half-asleep. "What time is it?"

"Just past eight."

At that, she sat up straighter. "I am so sorry! Have you been waiting for me?"

He could not admit to her that he had only just arose himself; healing his injuries had kept him unconscious longer than usual. "It is no matter. How was your first day?"

She hesitated a bit at this. Her eyes seemed to dim, but her tone was cheerful. "It was all right enough. Meg Giry was quite friendly. I enjoyed her company."

"I hope she did as she was told."

"I believe she did," Christine said, lips twitching in amusement. Then she looked down, long eyelashes fluttering against her suddenly flushed cheeks. "Would you sit with me awhile? Or did you need to eat dinner?"

Oh yes, he wished he could eat, to sink to his knees and draw from the strong vein pulsing in her dainty wrist. Last night flashed through his mind, memories of her warmth and softness. He needed a distraction, so he murmured an affirmative to her question and turned to stoke the fire.

"Tell me more about your day," he said.

She did, chattering about how she had explored the grounds. He paused once when she revealed the locked doors she had encountered, but they were only a passing mention, and so he went about fixing the fire and then eased himself into the armchair beside her.

Christine finished, picking nervously at the nail on her pinky finger. "How was your day?" she asked.

"I worked. I went much of my time rewriting pieces of music or replying to notes for the latest production on which I have been asked to give my artistic impression."

She perked up at that. "Over at the Palais Garnier?"

"Yes."

"That sounds fascinating."

"I suppose." He could spin enough of a story for her, thread details from the past with explanations of the present. He could half-lie to her, weave truth with fiction, create a persona of her husband that she might believe.

His throat closed. She looked at him with such innocence, even after the way he had treated her last night. Would she come to expect the same tonight? How long could he sit here night after night and lie to her?

He rose. "Forgive me, Christine. I feel ill."

"What is wrong?" she said, rising too. Her fine eyebrows were drawn together, genuine worry dotting her features. She was beautiful, and he needed to escape before he ruined everything.

"Perhaps something I ate," he said, moving to the door.

Gods help him, she grasped onto his sleeve. "What was it that you ate for dinner? I could fetch a doctor. Where is Darius? Maybe he could help too."

Too many questions. Would that he could answer them! _No, my bride, it is the fact that I have not eaten today, and you seem far too delicious. A doctor cannot help me because I am quite dead already. Darius will be indisposed for at least another day because he let me rip him apart so that I did not rip you apart._

He had to get _out_.

Erik swung his arm, wrenching his sleeve from her fingers. "Good night, my dear," he said. "Perhaps tomorrow."

Yet another lie.

* * *

Christine woke again to Meg Giry pulling open the curtains, more gently this time and with kinder regard to her eyes and the sunlight. It had not taken long for them to fall into routine together, and now, on the fourth morning, Christine did not feel so guilty taking her time to rise while Meg saw to the fireplace and then to breakfast. The two of them ate together now, perhaps faux pas, but no one had to know except them.

She had not seen her husband since that evening he had taken ill.

If not for his daily letters, she might have contacted Dr. Martin to look in on him. However, Erik insisted he was merely recovering from some type of stomach sickness that he did not wish her to catch. This combined with an overabundant workload kept him away from her both day and night.

Darius had at least reappeared after that first day, but even he seemed to be avoiding her. He had always been so cheerful and willing to chat, and so his absence added to her increasing despair. Her new life was not at all what she had imagined it would be. She was a wife without a husband, a madame with nothing to do but wander her empty, expansive mansion.

At least Papa wrote to her daily. He had settled nicely into his new room, and the watchful eye of nurses meant he felt more comfortable than he had in months.

By the afternoon, Meg found her plucking at the piano on the second floor. "My chores are done. Is there anything else you need before I leave?"

"A way out of here." The words left Christine's mouth before she realized what she was saying. Once they were floating out there, she found she did not want to take them back.

Meg looked at her evenly. "Monsieur Voclain expressly told me that you must remain indoors."

"I believe the weather is not permitting an outdoor adventure anyway." Christine waited, held her breath, hoped the other woman was as daring as she thought.

Meg's pixie face broke out into a grin. "I have just the place."

Sometimes Darius drove Meg in the afternoons, but oftentimes, it was a rented stagecoach that would take her where she needed to go after work. Meg helped Christine dress in something more suitable to be seen in public: a crisp burgundy gown with long sleeves and a high neck. A cape with fur trim would keep her warm in the chilly autumn air, as would the muff for her hands. As quickly as possible, they were off, leaving via a side door that opened directly onto the street where the cab waited.

"Ready?" Meg said, tucking Christine's skirts into the cabin.

Christine gave an eager nod, stomach fluttering. She felt like she was doing something forbidden, even though she was simply a madame going on a stroll with her handmaiden. So why did it feel like she was breaking the rules? When she asked Meg where they were going, the other woman held a finger to her lips, her eyes alight with mischief.

They drove to a busier part of the city, Parisians heading to afternoon errands or teas. Christine tried to peer out the window to see their destination, but it was only after they emerged into a large courtyard that she saw the giant building decorated in glistening gold accents.

"The Palais Garnier!" Christine gasped. She latched onto Meg's hand, giving her a thankful squeeze. "It is marvelous in person!"

"Have you ever been?"

"No, never. Papa was never allowed to play near here, and of course we were never able to afford tickets." She was pricked with sudden worry. "What if my husband is working here today?"

"Then we shall keep from being seen," Meg said, grinning. "I grew up here, remember? There are plenty of places to watch from backstage."

The two women stepped from the carriage and made their way quickly up the expansive staircase of the opera house. Once inside, Meg took Christine's hand and tugged her through several sets of doors, not leaving her much time to gawk at the intricate décor or polished fancy walkways.

"This way," Meg said, breathing a quiet laugh.

Under different circumstances, Christine would have liked to become friends with the former ballerina. Meg had the kind of energy that Christine needed in her life. Her eyes twinkled with so much mirth, and she laughed easily at anything that suited her open humor. Christine had spent so much of her childhood on the road that she had never been given the opportunity to meet other girls near her own age.

Meg opened a side door, then wove a path through curtains and backstage props before gently pushing Christine forward. "Careful not to let _maman_ see you," she whispered. "She would be so cross with me!"

Christine peered around the edge of the red curtain, letting her fingertips brush the soft velvet. A dozen ballerinas were arranged on stage in two straight rows. Madame Giry stood before them, counting out steps or correcting their figures. Christine could have watched them forever, simply enjoying the easy way they bent their lithe bodies or the music that wafted from the piano onstage. Meg found a costume and brought it so Christine could feel the beading, lace, and tulle.

This place had a _spirit_ about it, a thing alive as much as any person. Perhaps she could bring Papa here once so he could share the experience with her, this time from the seats. She shifted on her feet from standing too long, but she did not want to leave just yet. She lost track of time, so entranced was she by the ballet dancers.

The curtains stirred, catching her attention, but neither of them was touching the heavy drapery. Beside her, Meg noticeably paled, and when Christine touched her hand, the woman's skin had grown clammy.

"What is it?" Christine whispered.

A cold breeze swept through the theater wings, a chill that caused the fine hairs on Christine's neck between bodice and chignon to stand on end. On the stage, a few of the ballerinas rubbed their arms, but they continued their practice lest Madame Giry thump that cane at them.

"Do you feel that?" Meg said, her voice barely audible. "Like we were suddenly standing outside."

"Maybe someone opened a door?"

Meg shook her head. "I heard stories when I was a little girl, of someone… some_thing_ haunting this place. Any weird events stopped before I began dancing here, but the rumors continued."

"Every place has its superstitions," Christine said, but Meg's fear was rubbing off on her. Her heart began to race as the curtains swayed once again, the air around them growing even colder.

On stage, two of the ballerinas faulted in their steps. Madame Giry seemed to have notice the change in mood. She sent the whack of her cane echoing throughout the empty theater, making the girls jump.

"Go get water and change into your costumes for Act Three," she told the dancers. The girls scurried off, their relief evident. Then Madame Giry looked upward, her gaze hardening. "I warned you what would happen if you came here again."

To whom was her threat directed? Madame Giry looked as though she was alone on the stage. Christine tried to look through the slit in the curtain, but she could not see where Madame Giry's attention was focused.

"You have the audacity," Madame Giry continued, "to interrupt my lessons once again, despite the help I have given you these past few weeks, despite allowing you to involve my daughter in your scheme."

Christine glanced at Meg beside her. The other woman was paler still, eyes wide in her small face.

Madame Giry swung her gaze to the shadowed recesses of the theater wing. "Not only do you dare enter this theater again, you come full of rage. If you do not get yourself under control, someone is sure to notice."

Giry's words only intensified the feeling that had swirled around him. The ballet mistress was right – it _was_ rage that had frozen their skin. The curtain whipped around them, and Christine held out her hands to keep it steady near her face so she could see. Beside her, Meg gasped in fright. A white mist began to swirl around their ankles, nipping like teeth of ice.

Christine recognized Erik immediately as he stepped out of the darkness, but she had never seen him like this before. His cloak snapped furiously around him, a black shape that reflected the anger that rolled of his tall form. His white mask glinted under his wide-brimmed hat, and he seemed more massive than before, his gloved hands two fists, his large body quivering with fury. His golden eyes blazed with fire.

When he spoke, his baritone voice echoed around them, the wave of it rumbling through her.

"Where is my wife?"

Madame Giry looked at him coolly, although she gripped her cane white-knuckled. "Lost her already, have you?"

Erik took a step toward her, the white mist seeping around him. "_Where is my wife?_" he repeated.

"Oh God," Meg mouthed at Christine's side. Christine turned her attention back to Erik. He snarled at Madame Giry, white teeth flashing. He had… fangs? Two of his front teeth appeared elongated, glistening menacingly.

"I have not seen your wife," Madame Giry replied.

"I traced her here," Erik growled. "Based on her trail, there is nowhere else she could be."

"When is the last time you saw her?"

Erik paused at that, but Christine already knew the answer. Despite the chilliness in the room, her face flushed hot with her own sort of anger. All she had wanted was to enjoy herself for a little while, and here he was, threatening people with his malice, baring his teeth like an animal. She would not put up with this behavior, not from her husband.

"What are you doing?" Meg hissed at her.

Christine stepped forward, sliding between the curtains to reveal herself in the stage lights. "Stop this at once," she said, clear voice ringing out, drawing the quick attention of Erik and the mistress.

Madame Giry gave her a shrewd look. "Learning tricks from him, I see."

Christine ignored her. If the madame wanted to take up the issue, she could find her daughter herself. She walked right up to Erik, going so close that her skirts brushed against the tips of his shoes. He blinked golden eyes at her, the anger in them flashing out at once. The mist began to loosen around their ankles. He seemed… taken aback by her sudden presence.

"Stop this ridiculous behavior," she said, placing her hands on her hips. She arched her head back to be able to glare up at him. This close, the fangs in his mouth were more apparent, but even though they seemed so very sharp, she felt no fear of him.

She continued, "How dare you march in here and scare everyone? You are acting like a child who has lost his plaything, Erik, and not the man I know you to be. There is no reason for you to be so angry, and certainly no reason for you to take it out on the people here."

All he could do was stare at her. She was his entire focus, and when she saw the mixture of relief and longing in his eyes, her annoyance softened. She placed a hand upon his chest, felt him grow as still as stone.

"No," she said, letting her tone soften. "You were afraid, weren't you?"

"I could not find you," he said, voice strained.

"I just wanted to see the Palais Garnier," she said. "I thought _you_ might be here, and I was so tired of staying in that giant house and doing nothing. Now that you have calmed down, can we go home together?"

His shoulders sagged. She took his arm and tugged him gently in the direction from which he had emerged, and he took up the suggestion, leading them both away. Before they had fully left the theatre, she saw Meg step out and approach her mother, and both women watched them leave with wide eyes.

* * *

A half-hour ago, Erik had woken up and immediately felt the hollow absence of her presence in his home. It had been easy enough to find where she had gone, the stagecoach driver offering up the information he sought, but by the time he had reached the Palais Garnier, he had been too blinded by fear and rage to notice that she lurked mere meters away.

She had not taken her hand from his arm, her little fingers curled around his bicep as he led her through hollow walls and secret passages. She said nothing about how he knew where to go, and her silence frightened him most of all. While his little wife went with him voluntarily, he had no idea how to read the expression on her face.

They reached a small door that led outside, and here he paused. "I can hail a cab," he said, turning to her with the question.

She looked up at him. "How did you get here?"

He hesitated, but he was through with lying to her, done with hiding so many small parts of himself. "I walked. I can travel quite quickly when needed."

"Show me?"

So much lay beneath her question. Her round blue eyes seemed to plead with him. _Show me_, she had said. He would show her.

"May I pick you up?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

He bent and scooped her in his arms as if she weighed nothing at all, and to him, she was light as air, warm as the sunlight he craved, her golden curls tickling his exposed jawline. She curled one arm around his neck, careful not to dislodge his hat. And then they were off.

He ran quickly, still far slower than he could go at full strength, careful not to startle her too much. She tightened her grip on his neck, the only sign that she was alarmed by how fast the streets of Paris fled past them. When he had found her missing, all sorts of horrible thoughts had entered his mind. With Daroga still gone, Erik did not know how in danger they might be, and he could not lose anyone else… especially her.

She was secure in his arms, her fragile human body still thrumming with life. He had grown far too attached to his bride. Even though his heart, _mercifully_, remained a dead thing in his chest, he would have torn apart all of Paris to find her.

They arrived back at their estate. Darius paced in the courtyard, and he drew up as Erik halted outside the main doors, brow furrowed with worry.

"Christine!" he cried. Erik set her down and Darius embraced her. He stepped back just as quickly, embarrassed by his own show of emotion. How much this single human had affected the both of them!

"She is fine," Erik said.

Christine was still quiet, her lips pressed together thinly. The need to be alone with her rose like bile within him. He stretched out a hand to her, hoping.

"Will you come with me?" he asked. What if she refused him? He was uncertain what all she had seen back at the opera house, what all she had _noticed. _If she rejected him now… But he had to ask her permission. He needed, more than anything, for her to come with him willingly.

Her eyes seemed to take in every detail of him, and he resisted the urge to squirm. Then she placed her hand in his, a silent acquiescence. He nodded to Darius, and then Erik guided her into the house. She seemed to notice the moment he turned away from her wing of the estate and instead entered the spiral staircase with the two bolted doors. Her lips parted, and her eyes widened ever so slightly.

He turned to head down the steep steps. Christine followed, her small feet making their way slowly. He needed no light to see, but he lit a torch at the bottom of the stairs for her benefit, highlighting the door at the end with its many locks. He turned so his bulk blocked her view as the bolts gave way on their own, recognizing their master. He took up the torch and spread a hand toward her again, beseeching wordlessly.

She hesitated only a moment before putting her hand into his once more.

They descended, the spiral staircase winding downward into darkness before opening to his chambers. He left her at the bottom of the stairs as he made his way around the cavernous room, lighting lamps and creating a rare fire in the hearth near his bed. He knew the chill was pervasive here, and he did not want his wife to grow cold.

"Is this… your room?" she asked, eyes taking it all in.

"Yes," he said. He lit one last candlestick and settled it upon the baby grand piano. He had never anticipated bringing her here, and so he distracted himself by straightening the messy piles of sheet music scattered about.

A hand upon his arm stopped him. She had crossed into the room, and her scent filled the space, entwining her presence with his. "Leave it," she said. "I don't mind." She took a breath and blew it out. "I'm sorry for the things I said to you earlier. I should not have called you a child."

He took her hand from his arm and cupped it within both of his, smoothing his gloved thumbs across her knuckles. "I am the one who should be apologizing. I reacted badly to your absence."

"I understand why you did."

"You are not my _plaything_, Christine. I would never think of you as such an object."

"I know… but…" She hesitated, eyes bright. "I am your wife, Erik, but I- I do not feel like your wife. These past days have been lonely, and I… I feel as though you have been avoiding me."

He had, but he could not tell her why, so instead he bent and pressed his lips to the back of her hand. She flinched, and he let go of her hand at once.

"Christine?"

She seemed embarrassed by her reaction. "I am so sorry. I shouldn't have. Earlier… I saw earlier. Your teeth."

Ah, and so she had seen after all. He did not want to lie to her anymore, but there were so many things he could not tell her. He drew back his thin lips, knowing his fangs had shortened again. "I was angry earlier," he tried to explain. "Sometimes they show when I cannot keep my emotions in check."

"You were trying to frighten Madame Giry."

"Yes." He closed his mouth, spread his hands. "I would never hurt you, Christine."

He wanted her to say _I know_, but instead she folded her arms over herself protectively. "You _have_, Erik. You have left me alone, even after our first night together. I am alone in this giant house that isn't mine… I miss my father. Nothing is the same anymore, and I need… I need you _there_."

She pressed the heels of her palms to her face, and gods help him, her shoulders began to shake as she began to cry.

How had he managed to ruin everything so horribly? He had been so careful in his planning, providing for her whatever she had needed. He had dressed her, fed her, provided care for her father, given her a companion, and yet she still stood before him weeping.

She had _flinched_ from him.

"You are afraid of me," he stated, the truth causing despair to surge within him. He sank to his knees before her and continued to crumple until he was sitting upon his heels, hands limp upon his thighs. Even bent this low, his head still came to her waist. He bowed his head, blocking the view of her with the brim of his hat, unable to withstand her tears.

She cried in silence, and then he heard rustling as she dabbed her face dry. He watched as her feet stepped closer to him, pausing just between the juts of his knees.

"I am not afraid of you, Erik," she whispered, voice clotted with tears. "Not in the way that you might think. I am not afraid of those fangs in your mouth or the speed in which you can run. I am afraid of the way you avoid me so that I do not discover these truths about yourself. I am afraid that you do not trust _me._"

He felt her grasp his hat and gently tug it from his head, setting it on the floor beside him. Then her soft fingers tucked under the sharpness of his chin, and with gentle pressure, careful not to disturb his mask, encouraged him to raise his hidden face to meet her gaze again. Her blue eyes were still wetly shimmering, but she looked at him openly.

"But I suppose I need to earn that trust," she said, thumb brushing along his jawline.

"And I yours," he said.

He quaked under her soft touch as she ran her fingertips along his throat, knowing how cold his skin must feel. He held still as she brushed her fingers through the stiff hair of his wig, terrified she might jostle his disguise but also terrified she might stop if he pulled away.

"Christine," he pleaded.

She stepped closer still, her skirts brushing against the tops of his thighs, bent, and lightly pressed her lips to his. That small gesture set his world aflame. Before he could stop himself, he growled low in his throat, wrapped his hands around her small waist, and tugged her atop his lap. Her gown billowed around them in silky burgundy waves, her thighs settling onto his. His fear spiked that he had lost control once again, but she only chuffed lightly at him, her arms wounding around his neck.

"Kiss me?" she whispered.

He did. He tilted his head, careful to keep the cold nose of his mask from bumping her, and slid his lips across hers, her warmth seeping into him. Heated by her kisses, his lips softened and gave way, parting to slant more forcefully across her plump lips. He splayed his spidery fingers across the span of her back to keep her close, and she fed him a quiet moan of appreciation that only bolstered his confidence.

They kissed and kissed, his wife content to savor him and he starving for any taste of her. He let his fingers delve into the strands of curls at the nape of her neck above the high collar of her bodice. One of her hands cupped the cheek of his mask, and his hand chased hers, covering her tiny hand lest she try to remove it. She did not, pressing a soft sigh into his mouth instead, her fingers skirting down to grasp the lapel of his jacket.

They did nothing more than kiss and explore atop clothing, but it was the most intimate moment he had ever had with another person. At one point, her hips canted against his, a movement she seemed not to notice, and he groaned at the sensation. His little bride, his wife, his Christine. How much he adored her. The power she held over him could be his downfall, and he did not care, would do whatever she asked of him.

_I will do better_, he thought, head spinning with the feel of her in his arms. _I must_. He would do anything to become worthy of her.

Anything at all.


	11. Chapter 10: wake

**We're starting to roll a bit now, peeps. I hope you enjoy the shorter turnaround on this chapter, spurred by the holiday break. :)**

* * *

**Chapter 10: wake**

Christine's lips tingled as she made her way back to her own bedroom, the movement of Erik's mouth upon hers still fresh upon her skin. He had been so tender with her, so pleading, not taking anything more than what she had offered. By bringing her to his own chambers, he had revealed more of himself than he had before, and she had soaked in every detail with delight.

Her husband was not like other men, of that she was now certain. He was perpetually cold, warming only with the touch of her own skin. She had not questioned his choice of location for his bedroom, not yet anyway, but he seemed to hide from the world whenever possible. He had a temper that he struggled to control, and yet this anger seemed reactive rather than directed toward her, seemed rooted in fear rather than a need to _hurt_.

When he had stood on that stage, his white shroud of rage around their ankles, his teeth bared as though ready to rend and destroy, she had wanted nothing more in that moment than to soothe his seething emotions. Her own intense outburst had snapped him out of his mood, and she had seen the way he had responded to her, immediately mollified by her voice and presence.

He was drawn to her in an intense way she was only beginning to process, and his fixation was not one-sided. Reluctance to leave his rooms made her feet drag their way back to her own bedroom. If he had asked her to stay, she was not certain she could have refused.

Christine was surprised to see Meg in the morning, opening the curtains and stirring some warmth into the room with the fireplace. She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"You came back."

The other woman paused, placing the back of her hand upon one hip. "Good morning, madame."

"Good morning." Christine stifled a yawn. "I thought I wouldn't see you again."

"If maman had her way, then I certainly would not have been back. She was absolutely furious with your husband. Apparently, he broke some kind of agreement they had by showing up at the theater."

Some kind of agreement? Christine wanted to dig, but she did not want tension between her and Meg. "I'm glad to see you, in any case."

Meg stepped up to help Christine into her morning wrapper and slippers. "I'm glad to be here." She dropped her voice to just above a whisper. "I told maman there was no way I was going to leave you alone here. Monsieur Voclain… he was so frightening!"

"Yes." Christine chewed the inside of her lip. "I suppose he might seem that way. I appreciate your concern, but he was quite nice when we got back home. He would never hurt me."

Her words echoed Erik's same statement last night. Meg did not argue with her, either because she accepted Christine's assurance or because she knew when not to press her own opinion. Either way, Christine was relieved the subject was dropped, even as she was relieved that Meg was still here.

Meg fixed her tea the way she liked, and she was grinning when she handed it to Christine. "Think about what you would like to do with your afternoon."

"What do you mean?" Christine asked, blowing on the rising steam.

"I have been charged with escorting you to wherever you would like to go. The note I found this morning in the kitchens was quite specific about my new duty of making sure you get some fresh air every day. I think you are right about Monsieur Voclain – he seems quite willing to listen to you!"

Christine could not help herself. She returned Meg's easy grin. "Wherever I would like?"

"You can read his note yourself." Meg fished it out of her bodice and handed it to Christine, who glanced over the short letter. "There are some restrictions, but otherwise, we are free to venture out."

Christine's heart blossomed with excitement. "I know exactly where I want to go!"

* * *

Christine spent the rest of the day unable to concentrate on much of anything. She tried to read, but her body was a bundle of happy nerves, so she spent much of her time roaming the grounds again.

The clouds had split, giving her enough of a break in the rainy drizzle to venture outdoors. She had only seen the gardens from the window, and even up close, they were not much. Thorny rose bushes were in the throes of winter already, and these were framed by boxy hedges in need of a trim. She made a note to come out here and tend to the garden on another day. At least the fresh, cool air was a nice change.

Soon, she heard the sound of wooden wheels upon stone, and the gate creaked open to admit the stagecoach that carried Meg. Despite the other woman's protests, Christine helped carry in the different parcels.

"You know where he is?" Meg asked as soon as they had unpacked.

"I have his address," Christine said.

"Well, then let us get you dressed, and then we will go. I don't mind staying past my shift if it means you get to see your Papa."

Saying the words aloud made Christine even more eager to climb aboard the stagecoach that awaited them in the courtyard. She changed out of her day dress into an evening gown of pale pink, the shade so light that it was nearly the same as her skin tone. The bodice hung in a large v-shape across her chest, mimicking the delicate ruffles that lined the hem in neat little rows. Meg helped to pin her hair, leaving thick blonde curls that hung over one bare shoulder. Christine wanted her father to see that she was well cared for, that he could stop worrying so much about her. His letters had simply not been enough. She could not wait to talk to him in person.

The Salpêtrière hospice rose up before them. On this relatively nice autumn day, patients could be seen walking slowly among the grounds or being pushed in wheelchairs by nurses. Christine hoped to see her father among them, knowing how much he loved the outdoors, but there was no sign of him as she and Meg made their way to the front office. There, Christine gave her father's name, and the nurse found his room number.

"I will take you there. You are his daughter?"

"Yes," Christine said, stomach flipping with nerves.

The nurse smiled. "He speaks much of you, madame. This way."

Christine turned to Meg. "Thank you so much for helping me get here. I know you have things to do."

"I will at least wait until you're through," the other woman said. She patted the pocket lining of her skirt. "I might have snagged one of the novels from your shelf. Monsieur Voclain has so many interesting books!"

Christine gave a small laugh. "I will come find you."

Meg settled into a chair in the office and waved her off. Christine followed the nurse, looking around her as they walked. The place was clean, at least, the floor well-swept, the walls freshly wallpapered. The patients they passed were dressed in comfortable, clean clothes, and the nurses were kind and attentive.

The nurse stopped in front of a wooden door with a number upon it. "Here is Monsieur Daaé's room. This late in the day, he is likely sleeping, but you can sit with him as long as you like."

"Thank you."

Christine knocked softly, and when she received no answer, she opened the door to a little room with a narrow, rectangular window that let in soft afternoon light. The room was large enough for a small bed tucked to one side, a wooden chair, and a washbasin.

It felt odd to see her father after almost a week apart. She had spent a lifetime by his side. She walked quietly to the chair and sat, and she watched his chest rise and fall steadily in sleep. He wore clean linen clothes, and his gray-peppered hair was neatly combed, but he looked far frailer than he had at her wedding. His cheeks seemed sunken beneath his beard, and his body was far too narrow beneath the blanket.

She leaned forward and took his thin hand that lay atop the covers, his skin dry and cool to the touch. His eyes cracked open, still bright blue despite the rest of his appearance.

"Lotte?" he croaked.

"Papa!" The word caught upon a sob in her throat, a mixture of relief at seeing him and shock at how much he had changed. "I am so sorry it took so long for me to come to you."

His parched lips curved in a smile. "Nonsense, daughter-mine. I wanted- I wanted you to focus on your n-new life."

He barely made it through his sentence before a cough racked his frame. Christine helped him to sit up, startled by the bones she felt in his back. Then she poured him a glass of water and held it to his mouth to drink. A few sips seemed to stabilize him, but he was too weak to remain sitting up, so she lowered him gently back to the mattress.

Tears sprang to her eyes. "Oh Papa. You shouldn't be here alone. You should be with me!"

"We have been together so many years, Lotte," he said, squeezing her hand. "We have had our time, haven't we? And this place is not so bad. I can see the sun. I have a comfortable bed and fresh soup and bread each day. And I have gotten the chance to see you once last time."

_One last time_.

* * *

The closest Erik came to death was when he slept. His body became still, a marble statue of bone and dry veins, his muscles and sinew hardened from the lack of blood. He never dreamed, and as far as he knew, no vampyre did.

However, even though his body shut down, his mind never truly relaxed. He entered a blackness as dark as his tomb of a bedroom, a place to wander in his thoughts or shut himself against whatever troubled him. Sometimes, he truly slept: a closing of eyes, later an opening of eyes, a realization that time had passed without his awareness. Sometimes, he laid down and did not sleep at all. Sometimes, he sat at his piano, plinking at the keys and ignoring the sunrise's call to rest.

Today, he slept, giving into the sun's downward pull. He laid upon his bed, atop the covers he never used, his back straight, his bare hands entwined across his belly. Because he intended to sleep, he removed his shoes and jacket, loosened his cravat, took off his mask and placed it within easy reach near his hip.

He closed his eyes.

He awoke to the sound of a fist pounding atop wood. He was upon his feet quicker than a human eye could have followed, a flourish of one hand lighting the candles and lamps that dotted his chamber. It was a move that cost him precious energy, magic more complicated that a mere glamour, and he was taken aback by the fact that he even decided to do such a thing. He needed no lights to see in the dark.

Suddenly, he understood why his instincts had instructed him so: he heard a voice catch upon a sob, the sweetness of it tainted with desperation and fear. His wife's anxiety rolled off her in a wave that had him snatching up his mask and appearing at the top of his stairs in nearly the same motion.

Christine stood on the other side of the door, tears staining her cheeks, the side of her fist red from pounding. "Oh Erik!" she cried, her relief at seeing him evident.

"What is it? What has happened?"

He took a few steps past her, scanning with all his senses and finding no danger. The late afternoon sun was still too high, and even with the covered windows in the stairwell, he felt the warning sting. He retreated back beyond the doorway, halting when he felt the warm touch of skin upon his hand. His wife had grasped onto his bare hand, and the touch rooted him to the stone steps.

"I went to visit my father," she said. "Oh Erik, he could barely sit up, could barely drink or speak without coughing. I had no idea how ill he had become!"

"Nor had I," he said, frowning. He had asked the ward to contact him should the man's health worsen, but hospices were in a constant state of decay. A slow decline would have been easy to overlook.

"I am so afraid for him. The longer I stayed with him, the more I realized that he has been lying to me about his health in his letters. I feel… I feel so guilty for going this long without seeing him."

"It is not your fault, Christine. He was already ill beyond care."

"Beyond care?" She looked up at him, wide-eyed, unshed tears causing her blue eyes to appear luminescent in the dim firelight. "How can you say that aloud? The thought alone is too terrible for me to bear!"

"Bear it you must, my wife." He lifted his free hand and brushed a damp curl from her forehead. "I am pleased you came to me when you were this distressed, but where is your handmaiden?"

"I sent Meg away. It was far past her time anyway, and I felt guilty keeping her. I didn't know what else to do after that. Dr. Martin arrived and tended to him, but all he would do was shake his head." White teeth flashed as she bit the side of her plump lip. "Is there something you could do, Erik? Anything at all? Call another doctor, maybe? My father is all – is all the family I have now. I lost my mother. How can I l-lose my father as well?"

More tears spilled. To his surprise, she let go of his hand, moved onto the same step as him, and wound her arms around his narrow middle. Her shoulders began to shake. He hesitated a moment before folding his arms around her and drawing her closer, his long fingers stroking the rope of hair that fell in golden curls from her chignon.

"What is wrong?" Darius asked from the top curve of the staircase. He rubbed sleep from his eyes, his fresh heartbeat still beating slowly in relaxation from his slumber, a navy robe cinched loosely around his waist. "I heard the noise, but it took me a while to wake enough to come here. Christine… are you all right?"

"It is Monsieur Charles Daaé," Erik said.

Darius's dark eyebrows drew together. "Has he…?"

"Not yet."

Christine hiccupped a sob and clung tighter to him. "I can't do this again," she wept. "I cannot!"

Erik met Darius's eyes over the top of Christine's head. Was this not a moment they both had known would come? And yet the course was heading in a different direction within Erik's mind. The younger vampyre stared back, and in that brief instant, Erik could see Darius realize the new course of his thoughts.

"No –" Darius began.

Erik held up a hand. "Not here, not now."

Darius hissed softly, took a few steps toward them. Erik bared his teeth but his fangs were not descended. He would not lose control with Christine tucked between them as she was, so caught up in her own distress that she did not notice the conversation going on around her.

Darius glanced at Christine, then switched over to Persian. "You cannot do this, maestro! Didn't you yourself remind me of our plight mere days ago? Didn't you yourself acknowledge the danger in which we still find ourselves? You could undo everything we have worked for these past twenty years!"

Erik let him rant, knowing there was nothing Darius could say that he had not already thought. "How can I do nothing," he replied in Persian, "when she comes to _me_ for help?"

Christine turned her head, peeking out from his chest. "Why are you both talking so I cannot understand you?"

Oh, his perspective wife!

Darius cleared his throat, spreading his hands placatingly. "Madame–"

"Do not speak to her," Erik cut him off, this time back in French. "We leave at first sunset. Remember your place, young one."

Darius's eyes shot daggers at him, but he wisely drew up. He swung back around and headed back to his own chambers, the slam of his door echoing throughout the spiral flight of stairs.

Christine stepped back and wiped at her eyes with her palms. "You will go see Papa?"

"Yes," Erik said. "First, I must dress."

Christine's cheeks pinkened, seeming to notice his state of undress for the first time. "Should I leave?"

She was his wife. Could she not watch him complete the most basic care of his own needs? His first instinct was to tell her to wait beyond the door. However, her obvious distress made him hesitate to leave her alone for long.

"No," he said, turning to head back into his rooms. "You may join if you wish."

He began to walk down the staircase to enter the basement once again. He heard Christine's soft footfalls as she followed. He tried his best to ignore the warmth of her living presence in his domain, his hyper-awareness of her threatening to invade his senses. His shoes were the first to be put on, his bare socks more uncomfortable than even standing around in his shirtsleeves. He sat on the far edge of his bed and tied them with the precision that came with decades of the same repetitive movements.

Christine shifted at his back, the rocking from foot to foot a revealing of her own nerves. She seemed too anxious to approach him closer, so he found it safe to move to the tap he had built into the wall near the back of this main chamber. He had designed it to flow cool water when he turned the spigot, and now he filled the small basin. With one hand, he lifted his mask, and with the other, he splashed the flesh of his face. He dried with the towel there and returned his mask in place, checked the secure of his wig. All the while, Christine's eyes bore into his back with eagle focus.

As he walked over to take up his coat, she broke her attention to glance back up the stairwell. "May we leave now?"

"Darius will have the coach ready at sunset," he said.

"Why sunset?"

Her question was so open, so _expected_, so innocent. He did not want to see how her expression would change should he tell her the truth. But from this detail, he could hide no longer.

She was already one step ahead of him, her eyes swinging wide in the way they did while she put pieces together. She was marvelous.

"I have never seen you during the day."

It was a simple conclusion, and one he merely gave a nod to confirm.

"You were sleeping, weren't you?" she continued, hands fiddling with the fold of her skirt but eyes steady upon him. "You and Darius both. That is why you took so long to answer me."

Again, a nod.

Then she asked the question he knew was coming: "_Why_ do we have to wait until sunset?"

Erik pulled on his coat, taking care that details were in place: his cuffs pulled into position, his cravat tightened, his collar straight. Fully dressed at last, he felt more prepared to handle any reaction she might give him.

"Darius and I cannot go outside during the day."

"Why not?"

He came to stand before her, wanting to study her face as they spoke. She did not flinch back, and he thought this a testament to the bravery she had always shown before him. It was one of the many reasons he had been drawn to her. Her heartrate quickened at his closer proximity, and he was reminded of the fact that he had not eaten even a drop since their wedding night. Lucas's bonded blood was now forbidden.

He would not lie to her, but neither would he spill his whole truth. The moment she discovered his true nature was the moment he would lose her forever. A woman as pure as her would never choose to be with a creature as foul as he.

"Darius and I have a condition that causes sunlight to be harmful to us. If we are exposed to it, we will burn."

Her little nose wrinkled up. "Like a sunburn?"

"Accurately enough."

She chewed on this knowledge just as she began to chew on her bottom lip again. If she pressed for more details…

She sighed, one born of acceptance and not annoyance. "Would you play piano while we wait?"

He would, gladly. He settled upon the bench and immediately swept into "Sonno," the sonata for piano that he had composed.

"You remembered," she said softly, coming to sit next to him on the bench. Of course he had – he remembered every word she had ever spoken to him, so he could certainly remember that she loved this piece.

She sat next to him while he played, and time passed. Once he could feel that the sun was drifting below the horizon, he stopped and settled his hands upon his thighs, turning to her. Whatever he was about to say died upon his lips as she grasped one of his hands and pulled it to her own lap. When she ran her thumbs across the prominent tendons on the back of his hand, it was then that he realized he had never put on his gloves.

"Christine-"

"Hush," she said. Her soft fingertips stroked his hand. He tried to focus upon the warmth of her touch and not what _she _must be experiencing – the dry, papery cold of dead flesh, large juts of knuckles, spidery fingers. He let her explore as long as he could stand it, then dragged his hand away.

"We can go now," he said, rising swiftly from the bench. He fetched a set of white gloves and donned them, not missing her flash of disappointment. How could she stand to touch him more than was necessary? He could barely even stand to _look_.

Darius had also felt the beginning pull of night. He awaited them at the foyer, his face was full of misery.

"Not another word," Erik snapped at him in Persian, "lest I remind you of your debt owed."

"How could I forget?" Darius sighed. Then, in French, he said to Christine, "Let me fetch your cloak and gloves."

"Thank you," she replied.

Erik put on his own cloak and hat, and soon, he and Christine had climbed into the carriage that awaited in the courtyard, Darius in the driver's seat. It was barely sunset, and the sting of the waning sun was not easy to ignore. No doubt Darius felt it even more so than him, perched as he was outside the cabin.

They arrived at the hospice. Darius helped Christine out, and then threw a look at Erik. "I will wait in the carriage," he gritted out in a pained voice before climbing inside the dark walls, curtains drawn.

Christine checked with the nurse at the front office, but she knew where to go. She took Erik's arm and led him down neatly kept hallways. This place reeked of death even to Erik's dimmed sense of smell. He could feel the slowing heartbeats from each room, the timestamp of ebbing lives. The predator in him surged, and he shoved it aside; there was no room for those instincts here, certainly not until he had spoken with the man.

Christine knocked softly, then opened the door. Charles Daaé rested in the single bed, and he gave a heavy sigh when he saw Erik.

"Christine," Erik said, gently removing her hand from his arm. "May I speak with your father alone for a moment?"

She blinked at him but did not argue. "I will be back soon," she told her father, bending to kiss his forehead. She gave Erik a little smile and closed the door behind her.

"She has always been like that," Charles Daaé said. "Headstrong. Stubborn. I hope she has not been giving you too much trouble."

"Not at all," Erik said. He came to sit next to the bed, raising a hand to stop the other man from trying to sit up. "I would happily do anything she asks of me, including coming to see you."

"I told her not to bother you," Charles said, sighing again.

"It is no bother. Christine follows her own mind, her own heart. She trusts her own instincts. And she loves you very much."

"And I her." Charles gave him a knowing look. "You love her too, this I can see. I knew it when I saw the two of you at the church. Once you meet my daughter, you would do anything for her happiness. She has always had that effect on people, just like her mother. Monsieur Voclain, the best thing you can do for her now is to help prepare her for the inevitable. I am a man who has come to the end of his life."

"Yes, you are." Erik leaned forward, elbows on sharp knees, hands folded, chin atop his hands. He peered down at the human before him, listening to the death's rattle in his failing lungs. It was only a matter of days now. "There is no doctor that can save you now, monsieur. But I can."

Charles frowned at him. "No tricks, man. No false promises. Christine needs you to – "

"It is no trick," Erik said, eyes aglow. "If you are willing to listen."

Charles stared, and then slowly, he nodded his consent.

And so Erik explained, explain his true nature to a human for the first time since Mazandaran. It was risky, and he did not put a name to what he was, details which could come later as needed. He told the man how he could rescue him from death, drain his human blood and turn him into something beyond human, something that could not die. Charles listened with widened eyes the same shade as Christine's, and to his credit, he did not show any fear within his reactions.

When Erik finished, he sat back in the chair, hands spread atop his thighs, waiting.

Charles wet his lips. "You would-" he began, but he was suddenly taken with a ferocious cough. Erik helped him sit, gave him sips of water, helped him to ease back down. The coughing fit had lasted far too long, and Charles was weakened by it. His breathing turned even more labored, but Erik gave all the time he needed to regain control.

"You would… turn me like you?" Charles asked.

"Yes. You would have to live at night and cease to eat as humans do. However, you would not die. Your life would be never-ending."

"Never-ending," Charles echoed. He relaxed back into his pillow, stared up at the plain ceiling. "When my wife died, I thought my life was over. I ceased to play my violin. I barely wanted to eat or even leave my bedroom. But this little girl depended upon me… if it was not for Christine, I don't know how I would have survived that first year. I think I made it this far for her. Not for me." He turned his head, looked at Erik.

"And now you want to let go," Erik murmured, realization hitting him.

"Yes, I do." Charles smiled thinly. "Life is a gift, monsieur, but so is death. To be able to rest at last, to be able to see those I love again… that is truly what I look forward to. Maybe Christine does not understand this now, but I think in time, she will. I thank you for the offer, Monsieur Voclain, but I must decline."

"I respect your decision." Erik stood and turned toward the door. Then he paused and asked what he must. "Christine does not know… what I am."

"It is your secret to tell," Charles said easily. "I understand why you have kept it from her. She has more capacity in her heart to accept than you may believe. Eventually, you owe her the truth."

Erik looked one last time upon the man and went to the door. Christine sat in a chair down the hall, and she rushed over when the door opened.

"There is nothing I can do for him," Erik said as gently as he could.

Christine sucked in a sharp breath and dashed into the room. Erik did not follow. He needed to get out of this place of death. He maintained a walking speed until he had cleared the walls of the Salpêtrière. Outside, Darius called his name from the carriage, but he ignored the other vampyre, a youngling who had _chosen_ to become undying and who could never understand the envy that was sweeping through him.

Once he was away from prying human eyes, he let his vampiric speed overtake him. He fled south, through the shadows of human dwellings, through the streets lined with Haussmann-style apartments, rows of windows lit up with families and voices and _life_. He fled further south, soon leaving beyond the crowded nature of Paris, delving between forests and dashing across open grassy hillsides.

Finally, he stopped, chest tight as though his lungs wanted to draw air but could not, would not ever again, not since that night that she-devil in a veil had snatched his life from him, sucked it from his veins in the same way he had just offered to steal away the life of his wife's father. What made him so different from _her_, to turn a human when it suited him? Had he truly even given Charles a choice? He certainly had not asked for his daughter's permission!

Erik fell to his hands and knees in the damp grass, retched like he had anything to give up, the movement simply a muscle memory. He had almost thrown away everything, _everything_. One turned human, and everything could come crashing down around them. It would no longer matter if Daroga was still alive, would it? They would all be hunted one-by-one, tracked down like the runaway progeny they were, aided by the transfer of vampyre blood.

But he had not done it, had he? Charles had rejected the idea, and Erik's hands had remained clean. His belly ached, his muscles spasming. He had traveled too far on too little blood, but he must get back to his bride.

_"You love her too." _Charles's words echoed within his head, but he shoved them away.

He stood, smoothed down the envy, the fear, the longing just as he smoothed his clothing back into place. He would return to the hospice and go home with Christine, and he would move on from this loss of control.

He tried to ignore the stirrings of life around him as he made his way back to the streets of Paris, the ebb and flow, the birth and death, the wheel that continued to turn without him.

So torn by hunger and fatigue, from the emotive turmoil, what he did not notice was the single, slow pump of his own, once immovable, heart.


	12. Chapter 11: return

**This chapter is monstrous, but I just couldn't break it apart. I hope you see why.**

**Oh, and we definitely earn our M-rating here...**

* * *

**Chapter 11: return**

Erik returned to the Salpêtrière hospice, his pace slow. The hem of his cloak was damp, and his shoes were caked with mud from the kilometers he had traveled. He had taken off his ruined white gloves, but his knees were still wet. How ridiculous he must look if anyone human could be perceptive enough to notice him through his glamour.

Darius stood outside, tending to the two horses hitched to their stagecoach. He did not look at Erik as he approached. "Christine has asked to stay until ten o'clock. I thought this was acceptable."

"It is," Erik said. He was suddenly bone-weary now that he had arrived back. He climbed into the carriage, huffing in annoyance when Darius prevented him from closing the cabin door. "I wish to be alone."

Darius ignored this, climbing inside behind him and shutting the door. They were completely in darkness with the curtains drawn… not that they needed light to see.

"You could have put us all in danger tonight," Darius said, dark eyes hard. "Perhaps you already did."

Erik leaned his head back against the wood, stared up at nothing. His wig itched. He wanted to strip it all off. He had never felt so raw both inside and out.

"Monsieur Daaé refused my offer," he said at last.

"But you did offer. Which means not only did you offer what we agreed was forbidden – you told a human the truth about us."

Erik sat in silence. He could have argued this last point. Darius had told Lucas the truth about them, after all. But they were a bonded pair, and if Darius trusted his bonded human with their secrets, then Lucas was part of their inner circle without question. Everything Darius had said was truth. Erik _had_ put them all in danger.

"I am consumed by her," he whispered.

Darius sighed. It was a very human move, and as his body was heated by Lucas's blood, his fake breath was warm. "I knew this would happen."

"So did I," Erik replied dryly. "If Daroga were here, he would berate me even more so than you.

"Yes, he would. And he would do it more effectively than me. I always feared one of his lectures, but now I would give almost anything to hear his voice again even if it was in a tone of annoyance."

"When is it not in a tone of annoyance?"

Darius laughed quietly at that. They both lapsed back into silence, the sounds of the city at night churning from the streets beyond the Salpêtrière.

"I miss him," Darius admitted. "I miss him so much that I want to claw myself apart to make the ache go away. Lucas has lessened the feeling somewhat, but the hole is still there."

"He _is_ your master, after all."

The union between sire and creation was a strong one, superseded only by that of a bonded pair. The sharing of blood to create another vampyre was not easily ignored, especially when the human was willing as Darius had been. As an orphaned boy in Persia, Darius had been placed in the home of a high-ranked vampyre as a blood-slave. Unlike so many others, he had been fortunate that this high-ranked vampyre had been Nadir Khan, the leader of a group of guardsmen charged with finding and keeping entertainment for the Mistress.

When the Mistress's mind had begun to unravel, when they had been unable to continue to ignore her evil atrocities, the Daroga had turned Darius. It had mostly been to protect the young man, but it had also been an act born out of fondness.

"If circumstances were different," Darius said quietly, "would you have your own creations?"

"No," Erik said without hesitation. "Not again."

He did not have to explain to Darius why. He himself had been witness to Erik's first and only two creations… and their ultimate failure.

"Offering to change Monsieur Daaé was a mistake," he continued, "and one I shall not make again. I do not believe he will tell Christine about what we are as long as we continue to keep her in our care."

They both had their senses pricked. Darius climbed out of the carriage, and Erik could hear him greeting his wife as she approached. Soon, Darius was helping Christine climb inside. Her face was damp with tears, her nose red from rubbing with a handkerchief. She looked more beautiful than ever, her hair swept up in a low chignon with one golden coil across one shoulder, but her weariness was more than evident.

Before he could stop himself, he took up her gloved hands in his own. Her eyes looked down at their entwined hands, but he knew she could see little in the dark. As the coach began to lurch forward, streetlamps cast long streams of yellow light across her pale face from the open curtain.

"I will be all right," she said at length. "I must be, for Papa's sake."

"For your own sake," he said, caressing her knuckles through her thin glove. "While I know your focus is upon your father, you must tend to yourself as well."

She gave a soft sigh, her lovely voice rough with tears. "I would have preferred to stay by his bedside all night, but Papa told me I needed to go home and rest. He would not hear of me coming back until tomorrow."

"Good man."

"Yes, he is." She hesitated, then asked, "May I stay with you a while yet? I could not bear to be alone right now."

"Whatever you wish."

They rode the rest of the way in silence, Erik still sweeping his thumb over her knuckles. He could only imagine what thoughts plagued her mind; the death of a parent was never something he had dreaded.

They arrived back at the estate, and he supported her elbow as they walked inside. Darius put away her outerwear, and she seemed so pale in her pink-colored gown.

"Do you need anything else, madame?" Darius asked. "You did not eat your dinner, and the restaurateur left it on the dining table for you. I could reheat it?"

Christine made a face. "I couldn't possibly. I am so sorry for wasting the food."

"Nonsense," Erik said. "We pay the chef regardless. Come, my dear. You need to rest."

She nodded, bid Darius goodnight, and headed upstairs with Erik. She was quiet as they made their way down the long hallway to her own chambers. Although her eyes flickered over to him, she said nothing as he entered the bedroom and locked the door behind the both of them. The room was cast in deep shadow. Christine stayed by the door as he went around the room to light a few lamps. He kept the light low and calm; his wife needed a respite, and he would do everything he could to calm her troubled mind.

"Perhaps a warm bath," he said as he stirred the dead hearth to life with a fresh fire.

She nodded, still standing by the door. He gave her a long look. She swayed slightly upon her feet, her arms hugging her middle. Her eyes blinked slowly, and her face was expressionless. She was the embodiment of exhaustion. If he left now, he wondered how long she would simply stand there lost in thought before she realized time had passed.

Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed eleven o'clock. A late hour for a human and especially for one whose coming days would be plagued with even more sleepless nights. Erik knew for certain that her father would not last the week. It was an unfortunate reality that he could not prepare her for.

But he could at least be _present_.

* * *

Christine rocked on her feet unsteadily. Distantly, she could hear water begin to rush from a pipe. She could feel sources of warmth on her face, and in the dim light, she could see a fire blazing in the hearth and a lamp turned low at the bedside. She felt numb inside and out. Her last moments with Papa tonight echoed in her head.

_"You must rest, daughter-mine. It will not be long yet."_

_"No, Papa!" she had cried. She had buried her face in his chest, the cold floor seeping through the layers of her skirts to harden her knees where she knelt beside his bed. His frail hand had stroked her hair, and she had wanted so badly to freeze this moment in time. "Let me stay!"_

_"No." His voice had turned hard. "You need to focus upon living, Christine, and in the living, you need to move on. I can't go easily unless I know you will do this for me."_

In the end, she had agreed. She had sobbed and pressed her words of love to his forehead and hands. When her throat closed up, she had merely laid her head against his shoulder and listened to his unsteady breathing, listened to the labor of his lungs that had plagued him constantly for years. Her father had suffered so much, and soon he would finally be free. This truth she knew deep in her heart. He was getting a release that he had come to terms with long before she had even known the end was approaching.

_I feel so alone,_ she thought, staring into this place that was her bedroom.

Movement caught her notice. Her eyes shifted over to see her husband bending to test the water in the bathtub. He dipped long bare fingers into the clear water, his skin even paler while shifting through the rising steam. He was a black shape in the darkness of the room, all hard angles and long limbs. His white mask caught the flickering light from the fireplace, his golden eyes focused upon drawing the bath. For her.

_No, not alone._

She compelled her feet to move. He had arranged a privacy screen to one side of the bath, but she stepped next to him instead. Without speaking, she began to unbutton the front of her bodice.

He froze, fingertips of one hand still refracting beneath the water. "Christine?"

She heard the question within her name. "Help me? Please?"

She needed no help, and she was certain he knew this. Nevertheless, he rose to his feet, his height towering over her, always noticeable even though she should be used to the large bulkiness of him by now. There were few buttons on this low-slung bodice. Once she freed the last one, she turned around, letting the two halves fall open, and she waited.

He was a statue at her back. Then, she felt him slide the silky fabric from her shoulders and pull it back without touching her skin. It fell easily down her arms, and he dropped it somewhere to the side. When he made no move to further undress her, she set to pulling at the ties of her outer skirt, loosening the band around her waist. She let the heavy fabric fall from the small bustle, and she felt her face blossom with warmth for the first time. She had not worn such contraptions often…

The tie gave way, and the bustle joined the bodice upon the floor. She stood amid a puddle of silky pink fabric. Erik had not moved in a while, and she could not hear any sound from him, not even his breathing. Christine took her own steadying breath, swept the rope of her hair across one shoulder, and presented the back of her corset.

"Would you loosen the laces, please?" she asked.

His fingers lifted to the curve of her back and tugged deftly. Her corset loosened, gave way, splitting into two around her figure. She was able to then undo the hook and eye closures upon the front until the corset could be removed completely.

"Christine."

She turned slightly so she could manage a glance over her mostly bare shoulder. The look in his golden eyes made warmth flame even hotter within her. His white mask glowed, and he was a figure both fire and coal, wrapped in black clothing, a stark contrast against her figure clad in white linen.

Despite herself, she folded her arms across her chest, fingers at her bare neck.

"I need…" she began.

What? What did she need from him? She could not put the longing to words. Her father had not said what had been the topic of conversation between him and Erik, but Christine knew whatever it was, her father had been thankful. Erik had not hesitated to help her in any way he could, to be there for her when she needed him… and she was not ready for this night to end.

Her hesitation was enough, however, for Erik to swing away. She did not understand why he suddenly seemed angry with her, his movements stiff as he walked around the partition he had placed alongside the bath. The fireplace cast his shadow across the screen.

"Bathe," he said, voice hard. "I will still be here."

"A-All right," she replied. Without him standing over her, she _could_ breath easier. She quickly shed the rest of her clothing.

Erik had been right – she _did_ need a bath. The warm water seeped into her aching limbs and eased the tension in her shoulders. She unpinned her hair and leaned back, letting it pile atop her head to keep it mostly dry. Beyond the screen, she heard Erik stoke the fire. Then he strode near the bed and perused the book she kept on the nightstand. Despite her state of undress and his proximity, she felt oddly relaxed, almost languid. Right now, there was nothing she could do about her father, nothing she could do but rest and return tomorrow.

Right now, her husband awaited her beyond the partition. She wanted to stay in this present moment and push aside all her other worries…

She soaked for a while, plied her body with rose-scented soap. Then, she pulled the drain, announcing to the quiet room, "I am getting out."

"Do so," came Erik's strained voice from near the bed.

Christine grabbed the nearby towel and stood in the tub, drying herself as best she could before stepping out to dry her feet. Her nightgowns were in the dresser, and she would have to emerge from behind the screen to retrieve one.

The towel was large enough to wrap from her arms to her knees, so she folded it tightly around her body. Erik twisted around at the sight of her emerging from behind the screen. He set down the book, eyes widening ever so slightly behind his mask.

"Was your bath… satisfactory?"

"Yes."

She fisted the towel closed, hovered in indecision. She felt rooted to the spot by his rapt attention. She swallowed hard and crossed to the dresser, fishing out a pressed nightdress of fine white cotton with little ruffles at the sleeves and collar. It should be an easy thing to put on, but not necessarily when she stood naked in front of a man looking at her as though he had never seen her before.

"Would you help me?" she asked, doing her best to keep her expression open and calm. She walked over to him before he could respond and held out the nightdress. This close, she could see his lips press together. His hands at his sides opened, closed, then opened again and grasped the nightdress, taking it from her.

Obediently, she stood still as he gathered up the material and carefully slid her head through the main opening. Her hands exchanged positions upon the towel as she first put one hand through a sleeve and then the other until she let go of the towel and let it puddle at her feet. Erik still held onto the bulk of the fabric, and Christine felt her mouth go dry, suddenly very much aware of his proximity, of her state of undress, of how little this thin fabric covered her form.

Erik let the nightdress fall, and the cotton skimmed down to floor. "Your buttons, madame."

His fingers ghosted up both her shoulders, skimmed along her exposed clavicle until he could lift her hair free from where it was trapped underneath the open collar of her gown. Like always, his touch was like ice against hers, but now she expected the shock of cold along her skin that meant _Erik_ was touching her. Erik, her husband.

One of his hands still held her abundant hair aloft, the golden strands spilling through his fingers. His other fanned long fingers around her neck, and the barest of pressures encouraged her to tilt her head to the side, further exposing the long column of her throat. He moved in, stooped, pressed cool, firm lips to her pulse-point, and she latched onto his upper arms lest she fall.

"S-Stay with me?"

His lips moved along her skin. "I would have to leave just before dawn."

The sun. Yes. The calling of attention to his inability to expose himself to daylight reminded her of this truth: her husband was not at all like other men.

"I understand," she whispered.

"Go lie upon the bed," he said against her neck. Then he released her and set to draining the bath and straightening her discarded clothes upon the floor.

Christine watched him a moment, focused upon steadying her own breathing, and moved to the bed as he had requested. As she climbed upon the mattress, she realized her nightdress was still unfastened throat to just above her bellybutton. She clutched the two halves together, hovered indecisively on whether or not to do up the buttons.

A huge part of her wanted to see what he would do if she left them open…

She laid down, first on her side, then upon her back so she could continue to observe Erik. He finished with his tasks and came to stand beside the bed, golden eyes narrowed. She was well aware of her bare feet, of her messy damp hair, of how this gown clung to her slight curves, of her lack of underclothes. Her cheeks burned, but she did not relent in her own unguarded assessment of him. She would not be the only one shying away, and now she had the upper hand of awaiting his next move.

She watched as his pale hands came to his coat and pulled it open so he could shrug out of the heavy black garment. He laid it across a chair and sat upon the edge of the bed, his back to her, the shape of his spine stiffly straight and showing through the black silk of his waistcoat. He untied first one shoe and then the other, slid off both, and neatly set them next to the bed. It was a domestic moment from a man she had never seen act in such a way. He had never willingly removed anything before her.

He laid down next to her, the bed dipping from his weight. "The hour is late, my dear. You should sleep."

She gave a soft sigh and stared up at the ceiling. "I am bone-weary, and yet I feel as though I shall never sleep again."

"Your mind will not allow you to rest."

"No." She turned her head to glance at him. His eyes slid over to meet hers.

"I could offer up a distraction," he said.

That was all the invitation she needed. Christine rolled onto her side at the same time he did as well, and their mouths collided. Erik's fingers delved into her curls, lightly tugging against her scalp, holding her to him while he slanted his lips to kiss her deeper. His lips heated against hers, and she relished in the firmness of them, how he pressed against her with almost bruising, all-consuming force. When she felt the swipe of his tongue against her bottom lip, she groaned into his mouth. She flushed with heat, wanting more.

She tugged on his arm, squirmed against him. He responded by shifting atop her, his long legs threading through hers, her gown rucked up around her thighs. She welcomed his weight, his bulk making her feel small but protected, his hands tugging on the damp ends of her hair or thumbs swiping her cheekbones to cup her face and edge their kiss even deeper.

She brought her arms to wrap around his broad shoulders, careful to stay away from his mask and commit nothing that might tear him away from her. When a shudder ripped up his form, she moved her hands quickly away, raising her arms to rest above her head, the backs of her hands against her pillow.

Erik broke away from her mouth to stare down at her. Then he lowered down and pressed his cool lips to her neck. "Little wife," he mouthed against her flushed skin. "Shall I touch you further?"

Christine swallowed, nodded, and she felt those lips curl every so slightly upward against the arch of her throat. Erik kissed his way down to her collarbone, mapping the ridges he found there and stirring more warmth between her thighs. His lips continued downward, finding the split in her gown, pressing dry kisses between her breasts, to the valley between her ribs, and back up again.

"My wife," he murmured here again, against her neck, "my Christine."

She felt the press of something sharp, two mirroring pin pricks not quite breaking the skin. Teeth, sharp teeth, edging along the tendon just below her ear.

_Fangs_.

She remembered the sight of him at the Palais Garnier, the way he had bared his teeth in anger, no, not at her, but the direction of his concentration could have turned to her, _could have…_ Her mind spun, fear rising fast and flooding her system, sending her heartbeat thudding fiercely within her chest.

Erik jerked away from her at once, and she gasped a deep breath as though starved for oxygen. One of her hands fled to her neck expecting to find the dampness of blood, but she felt nothing except her own wildly flittering pulse. She could not look at him, too afraid of the expression she might find. She rolled away upon the bed, folded her arms across her chest, drew her knees upward.

Behind her, Erik was stone still. Then he said barely audibly, "Do you wish me to leave?"

She wanted to say yes; it was her first reaction, the first word that leapt into her throat. But if she pushed him away now, she knew something would break between them. A void would crack open, and the fear of never being able to cross it again overrode her fear of him.

"S-Stay."

He shifted upon the bed, stole closer to her again. Her eyes were wide, staring into the dim, flickering firelight of her room. Ever so slowly, he pressed the long line of his body to the back of hers. One of his arms snaked under the pillow beneath her head and came around her chest to pin her to him. His other arm joined, and for a while, he simply cocooned her body with the hard, lengthy shape of his.

"I frightened you," he said, his lips close to her ear.

"Yes," she whispered. She let one of her thumbs stroke the side of his wrist, trying to relax into this new embrace. "Sometimes I wonder, Erik… I wonder what you – "

"They are different, yes," he said, smoothly cutting her off.

_What you are, what you are_ echoed unspoken in her head.

He shifted his freer hand to tug lightly upon the collar of her nightdress, edging the white fabric down her shoulder so he could press his closed lips to the smooth skin there.

"I will not touch them to you again."

His hand drew the edge of her gown further downward, and she felt the night air upon her right breast. "I will touch you with my fingers, yes? Tell me yes, dear wife."

"Y-Yes. Yes."

His hand cupped her breast, his palm rough against her sensitive flesh. He seemed to test the weight of her, become fascinated by the softness, by the give and take of her womanly shape. Her legs released some of their tension and relaxed more fully against him, the new angle giving him more freedom to roam. His fingers found the peak of her breast and gave an explorative pinch, the coldness of him causing her to stiffen under his administration.

"Ah, sweet one," he said in her ear. "The way you respond to my touch."

The arm under her shifted, other hand joining. Her gown was wrenched further open, exposing her to the perusal of both of his hands. Heat saturated between her legs, and she felt herself grow damp there. She did not know what to do with her own hands, so she pressed them to her face, biting the meaty flesh of her palm to stifle rising cries.

"No," he growled. The arm under her moved again, and the fingers of that hand threaded around her small wrists, forcing her hands from her face. "You have nothing to hide from me, nothing I will not take from you. If you invite me to your bed, I will lay claim everything you have to give."

His words should have shaken her, but instead she shuddered as he continued to pluck at her nipples with his other hand. A whimper emitted from her throat, and his grip on her wrists softened, shifted until his fingers were entwined with hers.

"Let me hear you, pretty wife. What other noises can I coax?"

"Erik, I…" She trembled. "I ache s-so terribly."

He went still. "I am causing you pain?"

"No, no, not… exactly? I feel so warm, so... I do not know how to d-describe it. I feel as though I am burning."

His firm lips mouthed the shell of her ear. "Show me."

She gulped in a lungful of air and moved to take up his free hand in one of hers, pressing her palm to the back of his hand, tendons prominent under her fevered touch. Gathering her courage, she slid their joined hands down between her ribs, down the slight curve of her belly, to the place where she throbbed. Even through the fabric of her gown she could feel the iciness of his touch.

"Ah, needy wife, this is where you ache." She could hear the constriction in his own throat. Even though she was the one twisting in arousal, he was not so unaffected. Her hand fled back to his wrist held across her chest, grasping onto his arm as though grounding herself.

His hand fisted her gown and tugged it upward. Air hit her belly, her upper thighs, her most intimate parts, and she clenched her eyes shut, trying to focus on the pleasurable sensations he was still coaxing from her breasts. He had done this once before, on their wedding night, touched her here, and while it had not been so unpleasant, her memories were clouded with how the night had ended.

He took away these thoughts by pressing his palm against her center, the cold a shock to her enflamed flesh. She gasped, her hips canting to meet him against her will, her body feeling no longer under her own control. His palm exuded a delicious pressure where she needed it most, and his fingers began to spread out across her tender skin, pressing against her inner thighs, the inside swell of her buttocks, the ridges to either side of her mound.

His hand shifted, and a single digit slid between her wet folds. She was surprised by the slickness he found there, her body already responding to him, dampening the way and easing the friction. The ache responded to him as well, centering where he touched and pressed, her hips tilting of their own accord.

His arm surrounded her chest, held her tightly to him while his finger continued its exploration. She found herself opening her thighs to give him easier access, her face heating at her audacity but not caring enough to stop the improper action. A chuckle rumbled in her ear, low and tinged with its own sort of desire, and cool lips clamped onto her earlobe, sending a shiver racing downward to between her legs. She imagined he might bite her again, but the press of teeth never came as he had promised they would not; she was startled to find her own pang of disappointment.

His finger slid inside of her, and she gasped at the sudden intrusion. It felt better than before, a sort of relief at finally being filled. Her hips gyrated against his hand.

"More, please. More," she gasped. His arm tightened around her.

"Sweet one, another finger?"

She could only nod. His middle finger slicked itself with her arousal, then joined the other, a tighter fit. It felt _good_, not at all how it had been the first time he had touched her. One of her hands flew to the press of his hip against the back of hers, latching onto the hardness of his upper thigh, seeking something to steady herself. He chuffed in her ear, but he did not bat away her hand. This position opened her further to him, and his other fingers again began to pluck at her breasts. The two different sensations caused a new flood of warmth and intense _want_.

Erik's fingers pumped within her, drawing out and sliding within her slick before plunging inside again. He began to repeat this motion, and her hips tilted to meet him, her hand fisting into the black linen upon his hip. His palm dragged across a spot between her thighs that made her unleash a moan, the sound so foreign that she clamped down upon it.

"No!" he ground out, repeating the drag of palm on sensitive flesh once again. "Let me hear that lovely voice of yours, wife." His other hand slayed across her breasts, his thumb finding her lips and smoothing them open. Her teeth nipped at the cold pad of his thumb, and then she gave his skin a tentative flick of her tongue. He reacted with his own groan in her ear. "She-devil. Give it all to me, sweet thing."

The pace between her thighs increased, and she became overwhelmed by sensation as he played her body like a fine instrument. She moaned around his thumb, unable to cease the motion of her hips. Her thighs began to quiver. His fingers danced.

She came apart around his hand, her body pulsing in ways it had never done so before, a heady rush that filled all her senses. She felt a steady throb against his broad palm, a burst of release within her, and she sobbed his name.

As she descended, he held her to him. Once her pulsing ceased, he eased his fingers free of her and held her tightly to him with his other arm. A heady scent filled the air – the scent of _her_. Her face burned, but he relished in the marvel of her upon his fingers. He drew them to his own mouth, and she heard the soft suck as he cleaned his digits. She could not help it; she clung to his arm and shook, overwhelmed.

He dried his fingers upon a section of the bedsheet and then wrapped both arms around her shivering body, holding her molded against the expansive firmness of him.

"Christine?"

Gradually, she relaxed into his embrace. He offered no warmth, but she had come to expect this from him. She was heated enough from what had just happened and from the roaring fire close by, so the coolness of his body was welcome. Exhaustion suddenly seeped into her limbs.

She turned her head enough to stroke the line of his jaw and kiss him softly. "Thank you… for that."

"My pleasure. You are tired, my dear. Now you must rest."

At that, she yawned, and with that stretch, her whole body sank into the bed limply. Erik did up the buttons on her gown and pulled several layers of blankets over her, tucking her in. She snuggled down into the bedding.

"Stay?" she managed to murmur, eyelids heavy.

"Until you are asleep," he agreed. "When the sun sets tomorrow, I will come and find you."

She nodded. She felt him settle at her back again, his arm pulling her against him. Comforted by the weight of him behind her, she was quickly pulled into sleep.

* * *

Erik held the black umbrella, the soft pitter of rainfall a continuous white noise around him. Perhaps it was advantageous that it would rain today, creating enough of a dampener over the sun that he could venture out earlier than usual.

To his left, Darius stood with Lucas by his side, both sharing their own umbrella, both dressed in somber black, their faces matching shades of sorrow. A few other humans were also in attendance: Dr. Martin, some of the nurses from the Salpêtrière hospice, neighbors from their old apartment. Madame Giry and her daughter stood across the way, keeping their distance, Meg dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

Charles Daaé had passed on after three more days of slowing breath and weakening limbs. After the second day, he never woke again, and while Christine had to murmur her goodbyes in silence, perhaps it had been best that he simply slipped away from her as easily as falling asleep.

The world continued spinning on its axis, and he was ever the fixed point on the wheel, never turning along with the rest. It was the cycle of life that continued without him: birth and life and death. Sometimes, like today, he took part in the mourning, but even in attendance of this funeral, he stood as an outsider looking in, a creature peering into the window through which all others could truly see.

"Oh, Papa."

Erik looked down at the woman next to him, her small hand clutching the inside of his elbow, her other tight-fisted on the handle of a violin case. Dressed all in black, she seemed washed out. Her golden hair lay pinned under a lacy black hat, and tears flowed freely down her pallid cheeks. She had only slept this past week because he had remained by her side each night until she had done so, his skeleton hands stroking her hair until her breathing evened in sleep. She did not know how long he watched over her afterward.

The Lutheran pastor finished his speech. Erik adjusted the umbrella to cover Christine as she bent and took up a handful of damp earth.

"Goodbye, Papa," she whispered, staring at the coffin in the pit. She released the handful, scattering the dirt across. "I will love you always. Tell Mama hello for me, will you?"

The visitants began to disperse. Christine remained crouched by the gravesite, crying quietly, shielded with the umbrella that Erik held.

Darius moved closer. "Is there anything we can do?" he asked lowly.

"Make sure she has something warm to eat when we return," Erik instructed.

Darius nodded. He bent and placed a hand upon Christine's shoulder, giving her a quick embrace when she responded. Then he and his bondmate were gone; even with the rain, spending too long outdoors at this hour was taxing on the young.

The Girys had crossed the distance between them. Erik clenched his jaw, but he moved back to give them time with his grieving wife. He watched as they helped Christine stand, supporting her on both sides by the elbow as she clutched the violin case to her chest. The three women spoke for a while, Meg Giry sometimes patting at Christine's eyes to dry them.

Madame Giry moved over to Erik, sharing his umbrella like she belonged there, craning her head back to glare at him shrewdly. "You knew this would happen," she said low enough that Christine could not hear, "and now it has. I trust that you will do right by her."

He cut his eyes down to her. "Suggest again that I would hurt her and see how I respond."

"You are not the only one who cares for her," she snapped back. "But never mind your possessiveness, Erik. We will be gone from Paris in a mere two weeks, and then you can be rid of us forever. We are staying only long enough to see Christine through the roughest times of her mourning."

He looked back at his wife with her head close to Meg Giry, the two of them quietly conversing. Having said what she wanted, Madame Giry left his side and tapped her daughter on the shoulder, signaling that it was time to leave. Meg glanced at Erik, her eyes wide with fright. He ignored her. His focus was now upon his wife.

"Come, Christine," he said, extending his elbow once again. "It is time to see you home."

Christine nodded and took his elbow. "Thank you for being here with me," she said, lovely voice strained with grief.

"I have nowhere else I would rather be than by your side."

She squeezed his elbow, laid her cheek upon his arm for a moment. "Let's go home," she said at last.

Later that night, she sat by the fireplace in her bedroom. With her permission, he drew out her father's violin and spun music upon it. He played sonatas he had heard Charles Daaé play in the city square before the man had grown too sick to continue. He played arrangements of his own songs that he knew Christine enjoyed. He spun out melodies overlapping into more melodies, his fingers creating an auditory testament to her father.

He stopped only after her head slumped to the side of the wingback chair, and her chest rose and fell with sleep that he had feared would be difficult to attain. Still he played, now a Swedish lullaby, drawing her deeper beneath consciousness.

He let the last note drift into silence, carefully cleaned the violin and placed it within its case. Then he picked up his beloved and laid her to rest in bed. With his knuckles he brushed aside the hair from her tear-dampened face. He settled into the chair to watch over her yet again.

* * *

Christine walked the paths of the garden, her black boots crunching lightly along the packed stone. She carried a pail looped over one arm, the bucket outfitted with her shears, thicker gloves, and other supplies. She smoothed the apron she wore so she did not dirty her mourning garb.

Since Papa had passed away, she had taken to wandering the expansive grounds of the estate, relishing in the fresh air and tending to the plants. Erik had given her leave to do with the gardens as she wished, so she trimmed them here and there, pruned off any dead branches, cleaned the walkways. During rainy days, she read gardening books that Erik brought for her, learning the correct ways to prune and plant.

She was… doing fine. With Erik's new attentiveness, her nights were filled with listening to his music or reading from books together. He had not touched her intimately since that night nearly two weeks ago, but his quiet presence had been far more what she had needed from him now.

She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders to ward off the chill of encroaching dusk. She was not quite ready to go inside yet, but it was almost too dark for her to see properly. When she stayed out too late, Erik came to find her. Usually she would be simply sitting upon one of the stone benches, gazing up at the brightening stars.

This place had become her sanctuary, so she was not prepared for a man to suddenly appear at the end of the row of hedges. He made his way toward her at an unhurried pace, and she straightened from where she had bent to pick up an errant leaf. He wore a tan traveling coat that fell just below his knees with darker brown trousers and crisp dark shoes that skittered upon the stone walkway.

Christine glanced at the gate. It was still closed and bolted, and she had no idea how the man had gotten into this garden short of scaling the high stone fence. He drew up closer, his gait casual, placing a walking cane next to him with each step.

"Good evening," he said, stopping before her.

"Good evening, monsieur."

He had emerald green eyes that gazed at her with easy warmth. He touched the brim of his hat politely. His dark hair was salted with gray as was his full beard that spread neatly from a strong nose and jaw.

"I am looking for the Voclain residence."

"You have found it," she replied.

He looked her over. "You are rather well-dressed for a gardener, even one that is willing to work so late in the day."

She flushed at that. She supposed she did look a mess with tendrils of hair escaping her hasty chignon and her apron stained with dirt. "One must do what is needed if one wants roses by spring," she said, trying to smile.

"My pardon," he said, touching his hat again. "I did not mean to offend. I was not expecting to find someone such as yourself here."

"Such as myself? What do you mean, monsieur?"

He scratched the end of his nose in a rather endearing gesture. "I have been traveling alone for quite some time. My manners elude me!" He extended his hand. "Monsieur Nadir Khan, at your service."

She cleaned her gloves on her apron, then took his offered hand. His grasp was strong but careful in how much pressure it exuded.

She introduced herself. "Madame Christine Voclain. I am the mistress here if you have need of something. I can also fetch my husband."

"Madame… Voclain?"

His eyes lost their warmth, pupils widening until they swallowed almost the entire iris. He dropped her hand and snatched up his cane, his grip tightening with so much force that his leather gloves squeaked in protest. His sudden change in demeanor did not seem directed toward her, his focus swinging upward to the house behind them.

A hiss rose up from his throat. "_Erik!_"

One moment he was there. And in the next, he was gone.

* * *

**The Daroga arrives! I hope you are as thrilled as I am. :) I have been waiting forever to finally get to write him in. Now the fun truly begins.**


	13. Chapter 12: feed

**Holy shit, it has been a while, hasn't it? Is anyone still here? (echoes)**

**I'm back with a new chapter! I can't promise not to take forever to write the next one, but I can promise not to abandon this fic. This chapter is a bit chatty, but the next will be far from that. The upcoming events are ones I've been waiting to write since I first brainstormed this monster. Onward!**

* * *

**Chapter 12: feed**

Christine gave a little cry, startled by how quickly the stranger – Nadir Khan – had vanished before her eyes. The air around him had _pushed_ outward like he had vaulted away from the space he had inhabited as surely as he could have leapt off a wall. Christine threw her arms up to shield against the wind that whipped at her face and hair and pushed at her skirts. She was almost thrown off her feet by the force of it.

The rush of wind left as soon as it had swept up, and when she lowered her arms, there was no trace of the man who had stood there.

_Erik_.

She dropped her gardening supplies, grabbed fistfuls of her skirts, and ran toward the house. It was just now transitioning from dusk to nightfall; Erik would be emerging from his bedroom in the basement. She took the quickest route there, bursting through the small red door that led in from the courtyard. Before she could make it to the winding stairwell, she heard a crash, and the sound of twisting metal echoed throughout the house.

"Erik!" she cried, panic surging.

Chest heaving from exertion, she fled to the staircase. The door to Erik's bedroom lay blown wide and hanging from a hinge. She could hear noises within the basement, but before she could make her way down the spiral stairs, two dark shapes streaked by her, flattening her against the curved stone wall.

Darius emerged from the top of the staircase, bleary-eyed and wearing his navy sleeping robe. "What is it?"

"Oh, thank God, Darius!" Christine cried. "This man showed up in the garden. When I told him my name, he came inside the house, and I think he attacked Erik." She pointed in the direction she thought they had gone. Another crash sounded somewhere from the second floor.

"A man?" Darius perked up and quickly pulled her back into the large room beyond the staircase. "What did he look like?"

She bit her lip. "Um, like you, actually? Slightly darker skin with a beard. He said his name was K-Khan."

"Khan. Nadir Khan?"

"Yes!"

To her surprise, Darius's face split in a wide grin. "Stay here," he said to her.

She grabbed onto his arm. "Where are you going? They were fighting!"

"Yes, probably."

Darius needn't have tracked them down. Soon, two bodies entangled in a brawl sped back into the foyer. They moved so quickly they were a blur until Erik was thrown against the wall, white stone cracking at his back. The stranger had a fistful of his suit jacket at the shoulder. Somewhere along the way, Nadir Khan's hat had been dislodged, and it was the only sign that Erik had tried to fight him off. The rest of his clothes were unwrinkled, and not even his hair was out of place.

Erik himself was in rougher shape. His coat was torn where Nadir gripped it, his shirt untucked and bunched around the bottom of his waistcoat. His black hair, normally so carefully in place, was askew in such an odd manner. His golden eyes blazed, and his fangs… he bared his fangs at the other man and hissed like a snake desperate to strike.

Despite the fact that Erik was nearly a head taller, despite the animosity flowing off Erik in waves, the stranger did not seem at all concerned. He easily dodged any attempts Erik made to thwart his hold.

"Back off, Daroga," Erik growled, "lest I fight back for real."

Nadir Khan threw back his head and laughed. "Let's be truthful, friend. If you _could_ push me off, you would have done so already."

Darius darted from Christine's side. "Master!" he cried, voice cracking.

Erik had not seemed to notice Christine standing there at the far end of the foyer. His attention remained rapt upon the other man. He reached up long-fingered hands to grasp onto the forearm holding him against the wall, but he made no move to wrench himself free.

"Darius!" the intruder replied. He let go of Erik and swung around to receive Darius's welcome, clearly not worried that Erik would retaliate from behind. Darius hugged him fiercely, the affection like that of long-lost friends… or family.

"Oh Master," Darius said, clinging to the older man. "I had begun to lose hope that you would ever return."

"I know, youngling. I am so sorry my journey lasted this long." Nadir Khan pulled back and wiped at the wetness upon Darius's cheeks. Then his brilliant green eyes widened. He pressed a hand to Darius's chest. "Your heart beats!" he said, wonder in his voice.

Erik cleared his throat, eyes darting over to Christine for the first time. "We are not alone," he said.

"Indeed. We will find time to speak together later, Darius." Nadir Khan patted Darius's cheek affectionately, then swung back around to Christine. "The woman from the garden. We have met."

Even though this was her home, even though she was not the one who had just attacked her husband, she felt like _she _was the one out of place, the invader in this moment. Three pairs of eyes were upon her, but her worry overcame any awkwardness.

"Erik, are you hurt?" She rushed over to him where he still leaned against the wall, the stone splintering behind him. She wanted so badly to embrace him, to straighten his clothing and smooth his hair, but he had never shown her affection in front of others, and she did not want to breech any of his boundaries in front of the others. Her hands lifted, then clasped each other instead. Despite his disheveled appearance, he was not bleeding nor bruised anywhere. Erik spared her a glance, but most of his attention remained on the man who had assaulted him.

She swung around to glare at Nadir Khan. "You should be ashamed of yourself of the way you have behaved toward my husband!"

Green eyes growing round, the man looked back at Erik. "So it _is_ true, then." He turned back to Christine and held open his hands, palms up. "My apologies, madame. When I heard the news, I must admit that I didn't react well. I was quite shocked to find Erik had wed in my absence."

"It doesn't matter how you felt about it," she snapped. "You had no right to barge in here and start throwing things around. Someone could have been seriously hurt."

Nadir Khan murmured another apology, looking actually subdued by her chiding. "I thought I would return to find the two bachelors I left behind."

"People move on, Monsieur Khan. I have half a mind to ring for the police at once."

"Is that necessary, madame?" Darius said, turning to her. "The fight is over, and I doubt Maestro will press any charges. A lot has happened in the time since Master Khan left. I think he is a bit disorientated."

"Indeed, a lot has happened," Khan said. "I have been gone too long, and it will take some time to set things right." He hefted his shoulders, carded a hand through his salt and pepper hair. "I lost my temper. Perhaps it is my hunger – I haven't eaten since I arrived in France."

Christine looked him over. He truly seemed apologetic, and he had been pleasant enough in the garden. She did not understand why he had fought with Erik, but Darius's delight at seeing him again threatened to become infectious.

Her manners overcame her caution. "My dinner arrived a moment ago, and I have not yet been able to eat. There is plenty if you would like to join me."

Erik had been quiet for some time. Now he stirred, thin lips turned downward. "Our uninvited guest will need to dine out."

Monsieur Khan gave a gracious bow. "Madame, I thank you, but Erik is correct. In fact, old friend, you should join me tonight. We have much to talk about."

"Any discussion can be tabled until you return."

"No, I think not. Your company would be most appreciated." Erik opened his mouth to protest again, but Khan turned his back on him, clapping Darius by the shoulder. "I should like to meet your bonded. Would you bring him round later?"

"I would love to!" Darius said. "I was about to head over to his apartment."

"Go on."

The two men embraced again. "I am so happy you are back, master," Darius said. He gave a low bow and headed toward his own chambers to get dressed.

"Already ordering him about, I see," Erik clipped without heat.

Nadir Khan's expression contained so much mixed emotion that Christine felt again as if she was intruding on a private moment. "Go get yourself cleaned up, will you?" he told Erik. "I am famished."

Erik pressed his lips in a thin line. He gave Christine another glance, and she thought surely he would not leave her alone with this stranger. However, he said nothing, heading toward the stairwell that led downward to his bedroom.

Christine looked at the wall where Erik had leaned. The stone there was fractured. It seemed impossible to think that Erik could have slammed into that wall without coming away injured himself, but there was no sign that he was even winded from their tussle.

She folded her arms. "You will pay to have that fixed and any other damage you caused."

"Gladly," the man replied.

"I assume your name is indeed Nadir Khan?"

"It is." He gave a long-suffering sigh. He strode over to where his hat had landed and picked it up, brushing off any dirt. She watched him warily.

"Darius called you master."

He placed the hat carefully atop his combed salt and pepper hair and retrieved his cane from where it had landed against a far wall. "He was my servant in Mazandaran, which is where we both are from. I left him here with Erik when I had to travel… for business."

"Is that where you met Erik? In Mazandaran?"

"Yes."

"He called you Daroga."

"It was my title there. My position. I was the chief of the palace guard, a sort of security advisor. I no longer go by that name, but Erik… well, he has not quite let that go. Despite appearances, Erik and I are on good terms."

Christine hugged her arms around her middle. "Then why did you attack him when I told you I was his wife?"

"It has nothing to do with you, I assure you." He sighed again. "I have known Erik for a very long time. We have been through much together, and because of this, we know each other quite well. I would never have expected him to take a wife. I was surprised. More than surprised."

"Disappointed."

He let out a rueful grunt of a laugh. "Not the word I would use."

Erik stepped back into the foyer. He had changed his torn clothing, and he was back in his usually neat state, including his black traveling cloak and hat. He glowered at Nadir Khan. "Have you been accosting my wife, Daroga?"

"Not at all," Monsieur Khan replied easily. "On the contrary, she has been interrogating me as good as any officer."

Christine felt herself flush. Was he being genuine or poking fun at her? "I would find Monsieur Khan's company easier to stomach if he would be more explanatory with his answers."

Nadir Khan tipped his hat to her in reply. "Shall we be off?" he said to Erik.

Erik nodded. He gave Christine a long look. "I will see you tomorrow evening," he said at last.

"A-All right."

She watched as the two men headed out the door into the night. The door closed behind them, leaving her alone in this vast mansion. She blinked by the sudden rush of tears, straightened her spine, and went into the dining room to eat her supper.

* * *

"She is a pretty thing," Nadir commented. He strode across the courtyard, heading toward the gate that would lead to the streets of Paris.

"Yes."

"How long have you been married?"

"Almost a month," Erik grunted.

Nadir gave him a long look. "Perhaps it is still the newlywed glow, but she seems quite taken with you. It's rare that I see a human willing to step between two vampyre engaged in a sparring match."

"She does not know what we are."

"Why not?"

Erik stopped walking, forcing Nadir to stop as well and turn to face him. "There is no reason to tell her, Daroga."

He hated the warmth in Nadir's eyes. "You could. I see Darius had no qualms against inviting a human into your hoard."

Erik snorted. "Darius is young and idealistic still, and his bonded human matches those qualities. However, Christine is too…" _Pure_, he wanted to say. He could not – would not – taint her with the mess that was himself. Not any more than he already had.

Nadir studied him a while longer, then let the matter go, at least for now. They reached the edge of the courtyard. Erik could feel the moment Nadir put up his glamour, a mild aura that simply aimed at making passersby _forget_. As they stepped onto the sidewalk, glances rolled off the Persian. The streets were busy, the evening mild enough to call out the throngs of Parisians wanting to enjoy a mild night.

Erik clung to the shadows, his form as inky as the night itself. They made quite a pair, the two of them. Nadir was as relaxed as any human out and about this evening, one hand tucked into his pants pocket, the other placing his cane alongside his foot with each sauntering step.

"You could join me, you know," he said. He nodded at a pair of women as they passed by. "Your glamour works perfectly well. No one can even see your mask."

"There is no point to this for me," Erik muttered. "I want to go back."

"We have only just begun," Nadir said, bidding another couple "good evening" in the next breath. "Plus, we have much to discuss – such as the fact that you do not use a glamour around your lovely human."

"I tried at first," he admitted, "but it seemed to affect her negatively. I was too afraid to hurt her if I continued, so I dropped the glamour entirely."

"The mask does not bother her?"

"No."

"And your bare face?"

Erik cut his eyes away, not replying, and Nadir continued their casual stroll. "Ah," he said at last. "Even so, how have you managed with no glamour? She doesn't know you are a vampyre, so you must be doing something to prevent her finding out."

Erik frowned. "She believes I am a magician, a man of many tricks and slights of hand. She trusts others too easily, and so she has been easily fooled."

"Oh, my dear friend," Nadir said, throwing him eyes too filled with sympathy. "I saw the way she looks at you. You are fooling yourself if you think that girl isn't sitting right now and trying to put the pieces together. How many other clues have you given her?"

Too many, Erik knew. He didn't like admitting these things to the Daroga, but what choice did he have? There was no other vampyre he would trust with Christine's well-being as much – or even more – as he would trust himself.

"Ah," was all Nadir said in reply after he had explained. He indicated his head to the right. "That couple across the next intersection. The man and woman with the plume on her hat."

"No, Daroga."

Nadir only flashed him a smile. "I am hungry," he said. "And two men out for a stroll are less suspicious than one. Come on."

Erik clenched his teeth and followed at a distance, watching as Nadir turned up his glamour even further, luring the couple into a shadowy section of a nearby garden. He met up with them in time to hear the woman's carefree laugh. Daroga had always had an easy way with charming humans; even Erik had fallen prey to his charisma in the beginning, eventually agreeing to come back with him to Mazandaran.

"Thank you for the suggestion," Nadir was saying. He turned to Erik. "This fine gentleman was just letting me know where they had dined tonight."

"The duck was especially delicious," the woman said. Her rouged lips were smeared on one side, her face flushed with too many glasses of wine. "I highly recommend it."

"I appreciate it." Nadir leaned in. "You must have lived in France for years. Your accent is near perfect."

The woman laughed again. "Did you hear that, Ernest?"

"I moved here for work," the man said, clapping Nadir on the shoulder like they were already close friends. "Luckily, my parents insisted I learn French."

"You two are married?"

The woman touched his forearm. "A few months, actually!"

Nadir smiled. "Well, you make quite a lovely couple."

This was the way of a vampyre such as Daroga. The woman laughed, lured into feeling at ease with this kindly gentleman in need of directions. The man was comforted by the wedding ring upon Daroga's finger and his fancy hat, as well as the flattery about his position or pretty wife. It was a con that Erik had seen dozens of times, but it was one he had never used himself. He had never had a taste for the drama of it.

They were now discussing the woman's jewelry, the fine bobbles upon her wrist. She let Nadir take her hand, and his glamour shown even brighter, the heady sweetness of it masking the scent of a predator about to claim its prey. In the middle of their discussion, Nadir's lips parted, his fangs gleaming long and ready. Erik glanced at the man in case he needed to distract the other human, but the woman's husband was busy running his mouth about the latest trading scheme he had secured with Germany.

Daroga pierced her skin just above her bracelet. Her brows drew together, the only indication she made that she had felt any pain, and he began to drink quickly, drawing heavily upon her vein. Her chest heaved, and Erik sensed only a flash of fear from her, quickly felt and quickly smothered away by the glamour.

The man chattered on about his latest enterprise, oblivious.

She sucked in a sharp breath when Nadir excised his fangs from her wrist. The scent of blood hit Erik's senses, salty and warm and everything he craved. He stepped a few paces back.

"I didn't take much from her," Nadir said, extending the woman's arm toward him. "You can draw for a moment."

Erik shook his head, pressing himself against the far wall of the small space. "I cannot."

"You need it, my friend."

"Finish her so we can be off!" Erik snapped, spinning away from the sight of broken skin. He could feel Daroga's measured gaze upon him. Then the scent of blood eased as Nadir pricked his own tongue and licked her wound closed.

"I believe I have had a bit too much to drink," the woman said, fanning herself.

The man caught her by the arm. "Shall we go, Marie? I don't even quite remember why we stopped here."

"Thank you for the directions," Nadir said, tipping his hat to the both of them. "I appreciate it."

"Oh yes, that's right. Good evening, gentleman." The man looped his wife's arm around his elbow, and soon, the two humans disappeared back into the streets of Paris. Within moments, the last trace of memory about the men who were not men they had encountered would vanish.

"I am going to return home," Erik said, shrugging his cloak closer around his shoulders. Daroga's cheeks above his beard were now a healthy reddish hue. His diaphragm pulled and pushed one breath from his lungs and then another. Envy stabbed cold and sharp within Erik.

"No," Daroga said, eyes turning hard. "We have much to discuss, Erik. And I am still hungry. Let's proceed."

When the other vampyre left the stairwell, Erik watched him go. He could refuse. He could force Daroga to physically subdue him once again.

Once, Erik could have beaten the older vampyre in any sparring match. Blood had flowed fresh inside his veins with an abundance of willing humans in Mazandaran. He had even sampled Darius before the young man had been turned. The Mistress had loved to watch Erik, had loved to test his physical strength and prowess, both of which he had possessed in abundance.

And then everything had fallen apart.

Erik lifted his hands, stared at the broad palms and spindly fingers, their bony shape visible beneath his white gloves. These hands had killed so many, had done _her_ bidding both willingly and unwillingly, had pinned down hundreds of humans so he could drink. Once, he could have lifted a hand and made others scream in terror at the mere thought.

But Christine had not screamed, had she? She had stripped off his gloves and allowed him to touch her hair, her body, her lips. She had watched as these hands had brought her joy in music or wrung pleasure from her flesh. She had smiled at him and possessed him and not pushed him away. She had promised to be his wife, and every part of himself he had revealed to her, she had merely accepted it and waited for more.

Erik could refuse to follow Daroga, to ignore what he knew was coming. However, he had more than just himself to consider now.

He followed.

"Have you truly had nothing to drink?" Nadir asked when Erik returned to walking by his side.

"A sip here and there," Erik confessed. "Enough to keep the craving at bay." And to keep Christine safer from himself.

"When you first made that vow, I thought perhaps you would only last a few months. I am both impressed and appalled, my friend. However, you will have to rethink this choice."

"Why is that?"

Nadir held up a silencing finger. "Not here. We can discuss things further once we are inside."

They headed in the direction of the Seine, then turned north. Erik knew these streets well. Once, he had walked them often. After the events at the Palais Garnier, he had given the task of upkeeping Daroga's apartment to Darius. The rue de Rivoli was teeming with people enjoying the shops and restaurants, but their presence went unnoticed as they slipped through one of the doors into a narrow stairwell.

Erik had never understood Nadir's insistence on keeping this apartment. The windows lining the front of the living area let in too much light even with the shutters and heavy drapes. The neighbors were far too close to guarantee much privacy or daytime quiet. And yet Nadir had not lived anywhere else but here during his time in Paris.

Nadir waved a hand, unlocking the many bolts within the door. Erik had stopped paying for the electric lights some time ago, but it was easy enough to light a few candles. A fine layer of dust had settled in the two weeks since Darius's last visit, but everything else was as Daroga had left it.

"You have not been here," Erik noted. "Where were you hiding from the sun earlier? Somewhere out of the city?"

Daroga fingered the white cloth covering an armchair. "I arrived two days ago, actually. I spent most of that time beneath the opera house."

"In my old home?" Anger surged within him. He should not care that someone had stepped inside his old haunt, especially since he had abandoned it so long ago. And yet.

Daroga leveled his eyes upon him. "We need to gather all of our resources, Erik. Everything was surprisingly well-intact there, include many of your traps. I don't intend to go back there, but I wanted to make sure it was an option."

"Whatever _for_?" When the other vampyre did not answer, Erik gave his shoulder a shove. "Goddamnit, Daroga, speak plainly for once!"

"I never wanted to be gone for so long," Nadir said at last. "I thought it would be an easy task to return to Mazandaran, spy on the new vampiric governing body, and move on with my life. At first glance, things seemed fine there. None of _her_ supporters remained when we left, and none had returned to claim her throne. In fact, the current ruler is a man elected by those still there. Everything seemed… peaceful."

"Until."

"Until they caught wind of the fact that I was there. They thought I wanted to take over, to seek revenge against them. Many of them are descendants of _her_, as so many of us are, and rumors had circulated that we intended to wipe out her entire bloodline."

Erik snorted at that.

"I let them imprison me for a while. Five or so years, I think. They were kindly enough about it, keeping me fed and safe well below ground. Eventually, I grew tired of waiting around and dug my way free. They didn't like that much. I spent several more years trying to smooth things over. I assured them that all I wanted to do was check her tomb, and then I would be on my way for good."

Erik pressed his lips together. "A foolish thing to do, Daroga."

"I had to, Erik. Despite the peace in Mazandaran, everything felt _wrong_. There was an odd aura about the place. They had torn down much of the old palace grounds, but I felt as though its cursed walls still stood. I went to the ruins and found the place where we had buried _her_. Everything seemed to be the way we had left it."

"Did you… dig her up?"

Nadir shook his head. "I was too afraid of finding her awake once again, to find we hadn't finished it properly after all. I checked that her tomb was still secure and then left just as I promised. But on my way out of the country, I noticed I was being followed. By a human."

"Who would be foolish enough?"

"Who indeed?"

Erik crossed his arms. He was being forced to recall too much of the past tonight. The smell of blood was still acrid in his nose, and his stomach was coiled into a knot of thirst.

"The blood consort," he said at last.

Nadir nodded. "The very same bastard."

"I knew we should have killed him when we had the chance," Erik said, snarling. "He was too entrenched in the Mistress's madness, too brainwashed into doing her bidding. Leaving him alive was not as merciful as you thought. What did he want with you?"

"My help to uncover the tomb. I pretty much laughed in his face, and it was easy to escape his notice when I tried. He was quite old at that point, and very much driven mad by the thought that no one had deemed him worthy enough to turn. Eventually, I decided to follow him back to the palace grounds, but I wasn't quick enough. I found him dead by his own hand, his wrists slit, his blood leaking into the ground of the tomb itself."

Erik's hands drew into fists. "Daroga…"

"I cleaned up the area the best I could, but I still didn't dare check for certain. I stayed, Erik, I stayed for a long time afterward until I couldn't stand being there anymore. Finally, I had to leave and return here." He put his hands upon the taller vampyre's shoulders, forced Erik to meet his worried gaze. "So you see why I was so concerned that you had taken a human wife, why I am furious that you are still not feeding. We need you _strong_, Erik." His voice dropped to a whisper, words coming out strangled with feeling. "What if _she_ comes back? What if _she-_"

"Stop it," Erik said throatily.

"It is the truth, my brother in blood. If the Khanum, the Mistress of Mazandaran, our sire, has managed to survive, we and everyone we love are in danger."

Erik snapped his shoulders, shrugging off Nadir's grip. "Do not speak of her aloud."

"You have to pull the shadows from your eyes! Darius and his bonded are in too deep to separate from us now, but your human, Christine – there is likely still time to put her up in a place far from here. You can set her up with a pension under a false name that will keep her comfortable for the rest of her life. Erik-"

"No!"

"Then tell her the truth and make her yours in every way. You need the strength, and she needs to know the danger she is in if she stays."

Erik swung away, chest heaving as his lungs sought air that his muscles could not deliver. He wanted to rip something apart, to go back in time and sever that Khanum _bitch's_ head from her shoulders when he'd had the chance, to slink back beneath the ground and hide away.

"I cannot give her up," he said between clenched teeth. "But I cannot make her mine. She deserves so much more than this wasted body and corroded mind. I will not sully her with myself."

"You are in love with her," Nadir said softly, marveling.

Yes, he was. Desperately, tragically, horribly. He understood why Daroga had been so furious with him. He had tied himself to a human he could not have yet could not push away. If he continued along this path, he would rip himself apart during the ensuing struggle within himself.

And maybe that had been his plan all along.


	14. Chapter 13: push

**Hey, a chapter! No warnings for this one. I can't say the same for the next...  
**

* * *

**Chapter 13: push**

Christine sat in front of the fire in her room, a blanket across her legs, her hair down in loose golden coils around her shoulders, a stark comparison with the mourning black of her nightdress. The novel she had been reading lay forgotten on her lap. Her mind had been too distracted to follow the plot anyway. She gazed into the flames and tried to let her thoughts quiet enough to allow her to finally sleep. Somewhere in the estate, a grandfather clock chimed one o'clock.

Erik had said he would see her the evening following Nadir Khan's arrival. However, that had not happened. She had woken to a short letter from him stating that he had business to attend to, which would render him unable to visit with her for days, perhaps weeks.

She had fisted the letter and thrown it into the fire. Any ground she had gained with Erik seemed to evaporate like puddles after a storm.

Even Meg had said goodbye yesterday, the Girys officially off to Italy to begin their new lives. Meg would be getting married early next spring, and their last conversation had involved wedding plans. It had been fun to look toward the future with a friend, even though Christine wondered if Erik would even agree to let her attend the wedding.

Perhaps that was why she could not sleep tonight. She knew tomorrow would only bring more loneliness. Without Meg, who would she go shopping with or stroll in the sunshine on the way to grab breakfast? Not her husband, certainly.

Why had he married her only to abandon her?

No, there was something else going on. There must be. It was Erik who had pursued this marriage, Erik who had first approached her that night on the street, _Erik _who had inserted himself into her life in every way possible. He would only be distancing himself from her if he believed he was doing right by her.

No. Something else was going on.

Christine stood, letting the novel and blanket upon her lap both fall to the floor. Her ebony nightdress covered her throat to wrist, but she knew the corridors would be chilly. She swung a pale pink wrapper around her shoulders, though she did not bother to button it, and slid her stockinged feet into a pair of slippers.

She took up the lantern at her bedside and opened her bedroom door. The hallway beyond was dark, and her lantern cast long shadows down the empty corridor. She was the only inhabitant on this wing of the estate. Staring down the quiet hall, she wished not for the first time that her room stood closer to the others. Even if they did not deign to keep her company, she could still at least hear them stirring in the walls beyond hers, and that might bring her a little comfort.

No such luck tonight. Even in the hallway, she could not hear that anyone else was awake. She made her way to the foyer that connected her annex to the rest. It was eerie to walk this massive house in the middle of the night, the darkness far-reaching to the recesses of the high ceilings and casting the white stone walls into dark gray solitude. Her slippers made soft little sounds on the intricate carpets.

She paused here in the foyer, straining her ears. The flame of her lantern flickered.

There. In the direction of Erik's chambers – notes. Christine turned, the advantage confirming that she could hear the thrashing melody of a piano.

"He has been playing since the sun went down."

Startled, Christine swung around. Nadir Khan stood in the doorway of the adjacent parlor. He raised both hands in a placating gesture.

"My apologies if I frightened you, madame."

She stuck out her chin. "Do you always wander the homes of others in the middle of the night, Monsieur Khan?"

To her surprise, he let out a laugh. "I suppose I do, especially when that home is Erik's. It is an old habit of mine that no doubt annoys him greatly."

Christine relaxed at that. She could not help it – Nadir's easy demeanor was difficult to dislike.

"Can I get you something?" he asked. "Tea to help you sleep, perhaps?"

"Actually, that would be nice." She walked to the parlor and took a seat to one side of the sofa there, placing the lantern on the small table beside her. While she waited, she strained to hear more of the piano, catching a phrase of music now and then. Evidence of Erik's presence in the house should have comforted her, but the sounds he was creating were far from peaceful.

It did not take long for Nadir to return with a small tray in hand. "May I propose a truce, madame?" he asked as he poured her a cup of tea.

She took the cup from him and set to making it the way she liked. "A truce?"

He sat in an armchair opposite her and leaned back, steepling his fingers. "There is no reason for us to quarrel. I have no disagreement with you."

"Even about my marriage?"

He sighed. "My dear, if Erik is content, I am content. I have spent many decades chasing after his happiness. If you can be the one to give it to him, then I will support you in every way."

Christine muddled over this. She took a sip of her tea, noticing Nadir had not joined her in the refreshment. "I appreciate that, monsieur."

He relaxed further, his bearded face brightening with a half-smile. "Besides, Darius is very fond of you, and he is an excellent judge of character."

"I am quite fond of him as well. He helped my father often and made certain that Dr. Martin always saw to his needs."

"I _am_ sorry to hear about your father's passing. Erik tells me he was a good man and an accomplished violinist."

"Yes, he was," she said, lips thinning at the mention. "He was the best father I could have asked for in so many ways. He… didn't have an easy life, but you wouldn't have known by the way he acted."

"And you, as well, madame," Nadir said softly. "Your father's difficult life was your own, was it not?"

Christine took another sip of tea, mulling. "No. Papa did his best to hide how little we had from me, and his music kept our spirits up in rougher times. It was not until he grew ill that I saw how much he had given up to keep me more comfortable."

"The love of a parent is a grand thing, is it not?"

"Yes, it is."

They sat in companionable silence for a while. Christine took the time to examine the man sitting before her, who did not seem to mind her open study. He was as well dressed as the first time she had seen him, his gray-dusted hair as neatly combed as his thick beard, his green eyes framed by the beginning shapes of wrinkles. A ring on his right hand glinted in the lamp light.

"Are you married, Monsieur Khan?" she asked.

He looked at the ring as though he had forgotten he wore the thin piece of gold. His face darkened. "I was married once." He paused, then punched a sigh as though deciding something. "I had a wife and a young son."

"Had?" she asked as delicately as she could.

"They passed away."

"I'm so sorry."

He shrugged. "It was a long time ago, and I have come to terms with my grief. If I can offer you any comfort in separation through death, madame, it is that the sharpest of the pain eventually fades."

"And the rest of the pain?" she asked, thinking of Papa. Sometimes she hurt so much inside that she thought she might split apart from the pressure of remembrance.

"It never truly goes away," he admitted. "It remains deep inside you, like an itch you can't scratch or a thought you can't brush aside. You might learn to ignore it, but you will always know it is there."

"I am not sure your words are comforting or not, Monsieur Khan."

He gave a dark chuckle. "Neither am I."

"Would you tell me about your wife? If you don't mind."

"Perhaps a story for another time, hmm? I will tell you this, however. She was the love of my life, as was her son, and when they died, I thought I wanted to perish along with them."

Christine looked down at the teacup she held steady upon her lap. "I understand the feeling. I think… I think if I had been alone, I might have. I know that from the outside, it seems as though Erik cornered me into marrying him. Me, a poor girl with a d-dying father who had few other options."

"I admit that I thought the same, at first," Nadir said, stroking his thick beard pensively.

"Admittedly, I did too! But Erik took me in, he took care of me, and in doing so, I saw beyond what the public might see. I saw a man who wanted me – _me _– as his wife."

They lapsed into silence again. An angry sound met Christine's ears, and she held her breath to strain to hear it. The pounding notes had made their way once more to the parlor, and they made her heart ache all the more.

"Erik is my family now," Christine whispered. "I wish I could show him that, but he keeps pushing me away."

"A family can take many forms, can it not?" Nadir said wistfully. "Sometimes the fear holds us back."

Christine listened more closely to the melody that Erik pummeled from his piano beneath the ground. Perhaps his motions were not as full of rage as she had first thought. Perhaps she was not the only one who was lonely.

She set her cup on the tray and stood, grasping the lamp. "Thank you for the tea, Monsieur Khan."

He looked up at her, green eyes more hazel in the lamplight. "Have you seen him without his mask, Christine?"

The direct question along with the use of her given name made her draw up short. She kept her spine straight, one arm loosely tucked around her middle, the other hand white-knuckled upon the handle of the lamp.

"Good night, Nadir," she replied without turning back around.

She kept walking.

Alone once again, she let her feet take her where she yearned to go the most. She walked, more quickly now, toward Erik's section of the house. In the rotunda just beyond the stairwell that led to both his bedroom and Darius's, the music flowed more freely here. She could feel the chords within the soles of her thin slippers, the rhythm seeming to pound in echo with her heartbeat. Each step she took brought her closer to that relentless cacophony of music as she spiraled down the staircase until the light of her lamp fell across the locked door of Erik's bedroom.

_Oh Erik_.

He had fixed the door, and now the many bolts again lay between her and her husband. Christine breathed a frustrated sigh and laid the palm of her free hand against the door. For a moment, she felt the pulsing of the wood in time with the piano keys.

And then the bolts unlocked.

Gasping, she snatched her hand back. The door did not open, but the handle called to her to grasp it. The door gave way easily beneath her fingertips, and she stepped through, closing it behind her. The staircase continued to spiral downward, and she carefully stepped until she had reached the bottom.

Erik sat with his back to the entrance of his bedroom upon the bench in front of his grand piano. He still wore his full black suit, and the coat stretched over his broad shoulders as he swayed and jerked in time with the furious music he played. His long arms stretched to either side of him to strike keys, and she could feel the numbing vibrations in her feet, in her very bones. Music seems to pulse from him like an aura. Thick white mist seeped about his legs, reminding her of when he had appeared upon the stage of the Palais Garnier in a fit of rage.

He did not seem to notice her, his attention so rapt upon the piano. He spun from one melody to the next, splicing bits of sonatas together in nonsensical order. Sometimes he growled and pounded fists instead, and Christine winced to hear him so distraught. She wanted so badly to comfort him, and she stepped closer, the mist parting around her ankles. Perhaps she should have called his name. Perhaps she should have done a lot of things rather than what she did.

As she grew closer, she noticed that his head lacked its usual slick black hair. Instead, his skull was covered in thin patches of blonde almost white strands. The mist wafted upward, ghosting along her fingertips, and a shiver ran up her spine. The music throbbed in the very air. He seemed as foreign to her as a stranger.

Erik's mask lay next to him on the bench, the eye holes empty and black. Christine reached out and grasped it. The light of her lantern fell across the keys. This happened within the moment of one breath.

The next breath Christine took was to scream.

* * *

Erik raged, his mind swirling with too many emotions, too much anguish. He had been so relieved to see the Daroga alive, but his fellow vampyre's return had signaled a new worry. Daroga's presence had brought more questions than answers. Erik had spent so long trying to run away from his past, and if they all were not careful, everything he had built up could be undone with one single slip.

He had waited too long. He should send Christine away this very night. He could pay someone to pack up her wardrobe and have her on the first train out of the city in the morning. If he moved quickly, he could purchase a home in the country, move money around so it was difficult to trace back to his own hands. She could live out the rest of her life there. She could void this sham of a marriage, meet someone new and _alive_, and be safe. _Be safe_.

He fisted his gnarled fingers and slammed them into the keys. Then he blazed his way into another sonata.

He needed her, he needed her here, he needed her like he had never needed anything alive or undead. If he sent her away, if he lost her forever, then what would even be the point of it all? Erik could not go through another conflict with the Mistress while knowing he would never see Christine's sky-blue eyes turned toward him again. He would not have the strength in him to put up that kind of fight.

His muscles strained and pulled beneath his black jacket. He barely had the strength to continue to play, his veins dry, his fangs distended and aching to drink. He did not notice the woman behind him until the light of a lantern fell across his shoulder.

His first scrambling thought was that his defenses had not alerted him to an intruder within his lair. How could he have become to untangled in his music that he had not noticed he was no longer alone? He reacted upon instinct, swinging his arm around to lash out against the trespasser. His arm crashed against the hard angles of the lantern, sending it clattering to the stone floor. The glass did not shatter, but the lantern's light went out, casting the room back into the dim glow of candles upon the walls. A woman's pale pink robes entangled around her slim form.

Christine?

Erik blinked, lurched back from the piano so he could rise to his feet. Christine had fallen to the floor, and she pushed upright upon shaking arms. The stench of fear rose up within her, but he did not understand. She had come to _his_ room, she had sought _him_ out, and yet she was afraid?

He glanced at the wall, and the candles burned a little brighter. Maybe if she could see him, he could assuage her trembling.

Large blue eyes turned up to him, whites showing around the irises. Christine pressed the back of one hand to her mouth… in horror.

And around her knuckles, she screamed.

Erik clamped his palms to his ears. He felt a desperate need to block out her cry. His fingertips brushed against the sparse strands of his hair, and that was when he remembered. He had abandoned his mask hours ago, sick of the constant chafing upon the tender skin of his prominent cheek bones.

His mask lay upturned near Christine's knee. The bone white shape glared up at him. He was bare-faced before her.

_No_. He brought his hands around to cup his ruin of a face. He felt the jut of his cheekbones, the thin flesh of his lips pulled back in a grimace from his fangs, the dark hole of his missing nose. Between his fingers, he saw Christine's bright blue eyes fill with tears.

He did the only thing he had ever done when faced with a decision such as this one. He fled.

* * *

_His face!_

Christine felt bile rise within her. She had stared upon the bare face of her husband and found the face of a monster.

He had startled her, spinning around like he had done, lashing out with his arm and knocking her to the floor. She had looked up at him and been confronted with the sight he had so desperately tried to keep from her. Now she understood so very much why.

She had been unable to keep from screaming from the shock of it all, and his golden eyes had shown the hurt her reaction had brought him. Shame welled up within her, flying hotly to her eyes with a rush of tears. How could she have reacted like that! She had wanted so desperately to see him, truly _see _him, and now she had, and she had betrayed him.

Her throat closed with choking tears. One moment he was crouched over her, his face frozen in an expression of overwhelming panic. The next, he was gone, the displaced wind left from his sudden departure whipping at her hair.

_No, Erik!_

Christine pushed herself to rise upon shaky legs, still clutching his mask in one hand. He had not gone up the stairs at her back, so where had he fled? She needed to find him, to explain that she had merely been startled. If only he would let her see him again, she thought she could look at him the way she should have the first time.

She swallowed, trying to clear her throat. "Erik!" she cried, but the chamber was empty.

Where had he gone? She made her way around the piano and moved to the back of the expansive room. She had not ventured over here before, where the shadows bled into darkness. This cellar was far larger than she had thought previously. A short, narrow corridor at the back opened into another chamber, but she could not see far into it.

Christine took up one of the candles from a wall sconce, ignoring the sting of the hot wax dripping down the base. The glow did not reach far into the next room, but at least she could see where to place her feet.

This chamber seemed more unfinished, the way she would expect an old cellar to look. The walls were mere concrete in some places, the floor uneven stones. Her footsteps echoed more in this empty, yawning space.

"E-Erik?" she called, her voice bouncing off the barren walls and sounding far too frightened to her own ears.

A hiss replied. "_Stay away!_"

"Oh, my husband," she breathed with relief. "Please, do not run from me." His voice had reflected in so many directions, she could not tell from where it had come. She stepped further into the room, swinging the candle to peer around. "Erik, I am sorry for the way I reacted. Please come here?"

A cold wind rushed at her, nearly knocking her to her feet again. Her candle was blown out, tossing her into darkness, and some force tried to tug the mask from her hands. She dropped the extinguished candle and gripped harder at the cool material of the mask. She would not let him put it on again – not until she had shown him that she could look at him without fear.

Rage and frustration whipped around her. She could feel the white mist seeping about her ankles once again as though he held so much emotion within himself that it leaked out like water through a sieve.

His voice boomed around her. "I said _stay away!_"

Was he trying to frighten her? Trying to drive her away?

"No, Erik," she whispered. "I will not leave."

He howled like a wounded animal. The stone floor quivered beneath her thin soles, and she felt the hairs on her arms stand on end. Her equilibrium suffered with her eyesight cut off, so she sank to her knees to keep herself steady, the stone cold through her thin layers. She could feel him prowling around the room upon silent feet, the air shifting from the weight of his movement. She had never felt anyone command attention as much as he did.

_This is my husband,_ she thought, heart racing. He was hers, and she had injured him, had not taken the care she should have taken. She felt like it was her responsibility to soothe the distress she had wrought. His soul was so entangled in music, perhaps this was what she could use.

She wet her lips and parted them. Her voice rose up, rusty and unused, so quiet at first that she could feel the vibrations in her throat more than she could hear the sound.

His feet skidded along the stone as he came to a sudden halt.

_I have a song inside of me, Mama_. _Can I not share it?_

When she had been a little girl, she had been so moved by her father's violin that she had begun to sing. She had been sitting on her mother's lap, bouncing in time with the music, and her voice had simply poured out. The tavern had gone still, and she had come back to herself to see a dozen pairs of eyes staring at her. It was then that she realized there was something different, perhaps something wrong, about her voice, but it was not until later, as she grew older, that she saw how much her song could affect others.

And that had caused her parents to fear for her safety.

She had been forbidden to sing, forbidden to share with others the gift she had. But her parents were both dead now, and she wanted more than anything to calm the man standing before her.

Christine cleared her throat and began again, louder now, her vocal cords clearing as she pushed air through them. Her song had no words, the notes themselves all she could call forth from her rusty instrument. She rose on her heels, holding Erik's mask to her chest, and sang and sang, her eyes sliding closed, her chin lifting to call forth whatever comfort she could provide.

Her last note ended on a cough. There was too much dust in this chamber, and she had not immitted more than a note or two above a quiet undertone in years. She blinked open her eyes and felt Erik's cold presence directly before her.

Icy fingers lightly touched her throat. "You have an angel's voice," he murmured in awe. "Why have you kept such a gift from me?"

She flushed. "My parents were afraid someone might try to exploit it. They decided to hide it away instead. I-I guess I was afraid too."

His fingertips stroked the column of her neck, his touch igniting something deep inside her. She held still lest he stop.

"Fear can be such a dangerous motivator," he said.

"Yes." She gripped the mask she still held. "Would you let me see you? Please?"

"Would you sing like that again?"

For him, she would. "With some practice, I believe I could."

He did not respond for so long, she might have thought he had left if not for his fingers curled around her throat. "Do not scream," he said at last.

Shame again made her brows draw together. "I will not," she promised.

The candle she had dropped on the floor sputtered back to life, creating enough of a glow that she could see Erik bent to one knee before her, his other knee an angular jut to one side of her skirts. He sat back and released his hand from her neck.

Yes, his appearance was the most shocking, most horrendous, thing she had ever seen, but now that she was prepared for it, Christine could find pieces of him that had become familiar to her on which to focus. His golden eyes stared at her, sweeping over her face for any sign of her intentions, but they seemed brighter now without the hood of the mask's eye holes shadowing them. His thin lips were pursed with displeasure, but they were lips that she had kissed. His broad jaw tightened as he clenched his teeth, but she had seen the shape of him there before.

How he must have suffered in life! Christine put aside her pity, knowing it would not be welcome here.

"Thank you for trusting me again," she whispered. She reached out a hand. "May I?"

"No," he said, the sallow skin tightening around his fierce eyes.

She let her hand fall back down, swallowing her own disappointment. She could not push him any further tonight. Instead, she lifted his mask in offering, no longer wanting to hold him captive.

He took it at once, turning away from her to sweep it back onto his face. His hands smoothed over the scant strands of his real hair, and she wondered if those blonde locks were as soft as they looked. Then he stood with a snap of long limbs, and she relaxed when he held out a hand to help her to her feet. He was once more in control.

Christine grasped those long fingers and gave them a squeeze. "Would you walk me back to my bedroom?"

He nodded. The candlelight winked out behind them as they left the unfinished cellar, headed down the corridor, and emerged back in Erik's bedroom. How he managed to turn lights on and off was really the least of her concern at this point.

They said nothing to each other as they made their way across the manor, but Erik did not tug his hand from hers the entire way. At her own bedroom door, he paused. Slowly, with deliberate caution, he raised her hand and brushed his cool lips to her knuckles. From this angle, she could see the black tie that held his mask to his face and the ridges of skin that marked the beginnings of his deformation.

He straightened and at last let go of her hand. "Goodnight, Christine."

She could not tolerate the distance between them anymore. She stepped up to him and wound her arms around his narrow middle, tucking herself against him. He stiffened against her embrace but did not pull away.

"Ah, Christine!"

The longing in his voice nearly broke her. She held him as tightly as she dared, and she pressed her face against his chest, just to the side of the bottom fold of his cravat, her cheek to the soft silk of his waistcoat next to his jacket. She felt his hands come up and lay, trembling, upon the ends of her hair.

And she heard, ear pressed to his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat.

* * *

**I really hope I did this unmasking justice. I have never done Christine accidentally seeing him without his mask, and I tried to stay true to her character in her reaction. The next chapter is THE chapter I have been waiting to write, and it will come with a host of warnings. Yay.**


	15. Chapter 14: repent

**Not the chapter we were hoping for, but the chapter we need. My apologies.**

* * *

**Chapter 14: repent**

The golden years of Mazandaran saw prosperity amongst all its people, from the servants to provided food to the inhabitants of the palace. Such wealth was evident in the carefully laid pavestones, in the intricate detailing of doors and shutters. in the gold-plated lampposts that gave the streets a bright glow even though it was night. When its citizens could live for hundreds of years, a city had the time to achieve anything money could buy or time could help perfect.

Erik took notice of these details whenever he deigned to leave his residence, which though a modest two-bedroom was nicely hidden behind a ridge from prying eyes. The ability to perfect a craft was the _only thing_ he envied about the vampyre among whom he now lived. Imagine what kind of music he could write when given that kind of time, sequestered away in the quiet shadows of the night.

Erik walked the path from his dwelling to that of the Khans', his feet not needing the bright glow of the lamps to remember where to step. It was no coincidence that he had been given a place to live quite close to that of the Daroga and his family. Not all that infrequently did Erik remind the Daroga that he had been demoted to Erik's babysitter since that night they had met in Moscow's underbelly. Daroga's main task now was to keep him out of trouble, a daunting venture if ever there was one.

Any humans he met on the path gave him a wide berth, their skittish glances not bothering him much. He had a reputation, after all, one that he had hard-earned. Angel of Doom was not a nickname that came naturally. Right now, the streets were mostly busied by vampyre returning home before dawn. Even though he was human, he did not spare them any attention. No one would dare bother the Khanum's pet.

He turned the corner and stopped upon the stoop of the Daroga's home, rapping sharp knuckles upon the door in his customary fashion.

"Come in," chimed a woman's voice.

The door was unlocked – no one troubled themselves here. Erik entered and removed his hat, taking care to keep his wig and mask in place. "Good morning, madame."

Rookheeya stood by the sink, wiping a dish with a towel. Erik knew she was wary and distrustful of him, as well she should be, but she had always treated him courteously. "Good morning. If you are looking for my husband, he had not yet returned for the day."

Erik frowned, recalling the brightening line of the sun on the horizon. "This close to dawn? He is usually more careful."

"Yes, he is. You are welcome to wait for him if you like."

"Thank you. I did bring something for Reza." He pulled a small wooden carving from his jacket pocket. It was shaped like a bear addressed in a suit, and if the user could figure out how to twist the hat from the bear's head, one could fetch the sweet within. The three-year-old boy had showed an early affinity for such puzzles, and Erik enjoyed discovering what he could and could not solve.

Rookheeya finished drying the plate and placed it back inside the cabinet. "He is sleeping."

"Ah."

"Why don't you wait for Nadir in his study?"

Erik took the hint. She had accepted his role in their family but that did not mean she wanted to make small talk with him. He nodded and slipped away into the small room off the kitchen. The Daroga was a man disallowed many secrets, and the books in his study were mostly the sort that Erik would expect to find in the library of any government official. A few dusty books on the top row were first editions and worthy of reading.

Erik skimmed the titles, then gazed at the framed sketch of Rookheeya's dead first husband and Reza's biological father. A vampyre such as Nadir Khan could only sire through the transfer of blood, and as far as Erik knew, he had not allowed yet to do so. It was not uncommon for vampyre and human to live together – the need for blood often helped anchor such relationships. He shuddered at the thought. The Daroga should count himself lucky that Erik tolerated his company enough to overlook the blood-sucking.

The front door banged open, then slammed closed. Erik peered out of the study to see the Daroga standing there. He tore off his hat, revealing sun-reddened cheeks above his salt and pepper beard.

Erik tsked. "You cut it close."

The Daroga growled at him, baring sharp fangs, a threat that was more bark than bite. "Goddammit, Erik. I went to find you at your house first! You told me you would be there."

A stressed out Daroga was no fun. "I grew bored waiting for you, and I like when all the undead go to sleep anyway. Were you _trying_ to set yourself on fire?"

Nadir looked at the backs of his hands. Rookheeya gasped and rushed over, but he shrugged off her concern. The blisters there were already healing. He shook his head and pulled a folded piece of parchment from his inside coat pocket.

"I have the manifest for tomorrow night."

Erik tried not to show too much interest. He lifted his eyebrows beneath his mask. "You said you would not be able to get it."

"I had a few favors to redeem." His demeanor had softened from his earlier frustration. Now he simply looked old and tired; despite his eternal youth, he always looked old and tired nowadays. He cupped his wife's cheek, gentler now, and met her worried eyes. "Not this year," he told her softly.

Her relief was evident. Most humans under the shadow of the Khanum in Mazandaran wished to be invited into the rank of vampyre, but Rookheeya had a son to raise and a blood-letting relationship with Nadir that she loved. She had no wish to become a vampyre.

A parallel she shared with Erik.

Daroga's eyes turned hard when they slid back to Erik. Suddenly, Erik very much needed to get away from the pity he saw there. This house was too small for so many bodies. The lamplight inside was too bright, and he needed to get outside, see the widening line of the horizon shifting from night to dawn.

The silence forced him to hear the rush of his own heartbeat thumping loud and fast in his ears. And he hated that the vampyre standing in front of him could hear it too.

"No."

The Daroga took a step toward him. "Erik-"

"_No!"_ He bolted forward, but the vampyre side-stepped and blocked his path to the front door. Damn him and his inhuman speed and the way he flaunted it now.

"Erik-"

"You _promised_ me," he hissed, knowing his eyes had grown wide and wild behind his mask. He was aware of Rookheeya slipping away, but he spared her no more thought. "_She_ promised me! It was part of our agreement of my staying here that she would never force me to do the one thing I hate above all else!" Gods, was that his voice, so shrill, so filled with panic?

The Daroga held out his hands, approached him like he might a predator, but _he_ was the predator, was he not? The blood-sucker. The eternally undead frozen in time. "Erik," he said again, voice so soft. "I thought this would happen. She was growing far too fond of you. But that is why I got hold of the manifest early. The ceremony won't begin until tomorrow night. Only humans will be able to follow you now, and you can hide yourself, can't you? You can be far away by nightfall."

Run? It was an option that had not first occurred to him. His mind spun out the possibility, searched every avenue for escape. Yes, he could do it. He might be ugly, but at least he was a living man, and he had every intention of staying that way. Being human came with the privilege of dying and finally being free of this cursed face.

He looked toward the Reza's room. "They would need to come with me."

Daroga's shoulders drooped. "Yes."

"I am not going anywhere." Rookheeya stood in the doorway, arms crossed. Behind her, Erik could see a small boy asleep in his bed. "I know what they will do to you, my love. I could not bear the thought of leaving you behind."

Erik took in the family of three. He remembered when Nadir had married the widowed human woman, accepting both her and her young child into his household. In doing so, Nadir had saved her from either a life of poverty or a life as someone's blood slave, and on the surface, appearances showed that she made a lovely source of nourishment for the high-ranking vampyre. Erik knew the truth. Nadir had fallen in love with the woman, and her son, the moment he had laid eyes upon the pair of them.

If he left, it was obvious who would be blamed.

Erik turned away. "They will be able to find me at my house. I will not run."

The Daroga called after him, but his pleas were ignored.

At nightfall, they came for him. The Queen's personal guard took hold of each of his arms, their vampiric strength far exceeding his own. The Daroga did not touch him, but he stood nearby, the firm set of his mouth the only sign of his distress.

Erik was led to the palace and shoved to his knees in the middle of the court. The Khanum watched from her jewel-encrusted throne, her black eyes sparkling with glee. He had been here many times before but always as the one delivering her amusement. This time, _he_ was her entertainment.

He had known when he agreed to be her personal magician that this was a dangerous agreement, that her interest in him rather deeper than a court jester. Her demands of him had gradually became darker and more twisted until he had found himself inventing methods of execution. The Daroga had warned him that her tastes leaned toward the violent. Erik had been too sure of his arrangement with the Queen to realize that this time, the trap had been placed around _him_.

She leered down at him. She was a thousand years old, and her body had shriveled to some resemblance of what must have been her former beauty. "Angel of Doom on his knees at last," she cooed. "I look forward to enjoying the taste of you."

Now he did thrash against the vampyre holding him by the shoulders. He had never been bitten, and the thought of her foul fangs in his skin made his stomach lurch. She clicked her tongue at his futile struggles.

"Strip him."

They tore off his mask and wig, revealing his true face to the court for the first time. Gasps and screams met his ears, and he stared them down, human and vampyre alike. He saw the Daroga standing in the crowd and focused upon those kinder eyes, and in his mind, he turned around and around all the ways he would eventually make her pay.

His clothes were ripped from him, leaving him only in his thin linen pants. He knew what they saw – the concave stomach, the prominent ribs, the hollow of his missing nose. He was all their fears come to life, and now she was going to turn him.

He would be a monster forever.

They brought out the platform they used to convert reluctant humans. He fought them, a mere act of pride, but they soon had him immobilized. _She_ came to his side, her fangs dripping with saliva.

"What fun we shall have," she said, stroking his cheekbone.

The rest passed in a blur of pain and blood. He remembered the prick of her fangs in his neck, the pain of her drawing every drop of blood from his veins. He remembered feeling himself slipping away and wishing for death and seeing the moment he was pulled back from the brink with inky black blood between his lips, the taste as foul as rotten meat. He remembered feeling as though he were set aflame, his body torn apart. Again and again, he was forced to drink from the Mistress's stinking, dead flesh.

And then he remembered being set free and seeing the human woman released in front of him. He would never be able to forget her round eyes, her screams, as his fangs descended for the first time. He fell on her, now a thing more animal than human, and he drank until the fear left her lifeless eyes.

He drifted in and out of consciousness after that. Laughter echoed in his ears, and he felt so dreadfully cold. When he woke, he lashed out against the hands that held him down until he was finally able to filter the Daroga's soft voice from the confusion in his mind. He was lying in his own bed, his mask back upon his face, but _everything_ was different now.

Later, he would listen as Daroga prepped his home for his new nighttime existence. He would pay attention to those early lessons in how to feed without killing, how to touch without hurting, and how to dampen his own rage so that he did not tear the whole goddamn world apart for what had been done to him.

But that first moment as his vision cleared and he saw with vampiric eyes his new reality, he pressed a hand to his chest and felt… nothing.

And so the decades had passed, his body frozen in time, his heart ceasing to beat from the moment that bitch took his humanity from him. He had thought he would never feel that muscle's steady pump again.

And he had not… until _her_.

Somehow, she had awakened his dead heart. The force of the organ was weak as it struggled to sluice empty veins, but it was there. He heard the sluggish thump and felt his pulse with his fingertips. Within hours, the pain began, the tearing within his chest that would only be healed with the blood of his bonded.

For he had bonded with Christine.

* * *

Over these weeks, Christine had found her sleep patterns changing. She no longer rose with the sun and slept when it did. She had stayed up late into the night so many times that her rhythm had adjusted to suit, and so much the better with her night-owl of a husband.

Due to her late night with Erik, she did not wake until the afternoon. Her stomach immediately growled its protest for it had been too long since she had last eaten anything. She went to the kitchens to find both her morning and luncheon meals left for her on the small table there. She missed Meg and her daytime companionship horribly.

She spent the rest of the early evening in the gardens, enjoying the last bits of sunshine on the rather warm autumn day. As the shadows lengthened, she felt a combination of emotions that caused her heart to race. Nervousness mixed with excitement within her. She was eager to see her husband again, to show him that she could be trusted and see if he would again like to hear her sing. It had been so long since she had shared that part of herself, and it was a connection between them that she would see strengthened.

"Good evening, madame."

Nadir Khan stood at the gate, mirroring the first time she had met him. She tucked her novel inside her basket and stood from the bench, smiling.

"Good evening, Monsieur Khan… Nadir," she amended when he clicked his tongue at her. "You are early tonight."

"Actually, I came as soon as I could manage." The gentlemanly expression of greeting on his face slipped. "Have you yet seen Erik?"

"No, I haven't. Why? Is something wrong?"

"I do hope not." He shrugged. "I have become quite the worrier in my old age, I'm afraid. Do you mind if I come inside?"

"Not at all."

They made their way across the courtyard. Nadir's pace was quick, and Christine had to take long strides to keep up with him. As they entered, Darius stood waiting. His frown mirrored the one now upon Nadir's face.

"Good evening, Christine," he said to her, reaching to help her out of her cloak and taking her gloves. "Master, I am so relieved you are here."

Nadir hung up his own hat, nodding. "You noticed too?"

"Some time ago." He hung his head. "I was too afraid to go without you. I thought he might be too territorial in his own lair."

"You were right to wait for me, young one. Stay here with Christine."

"I am going too," she protested, following him as he headed toward Erik's chambers.

The two men exchanged a glance. There was so much between them and so much about this situation that she clearly did not understand.

"Please," Darius said. "Stay at the top of the stairs?"

She nodded. Whatever to get them to let her go.

They reached the rotunda of spiral stairs, and Christine was obedient, climbing around the column of stone and peering over Darius's shoulder. Nadir knocked upon Erik's door, and he did not have to wait long before the locks spun free and the door blew open, ushering along with it Erik's dark peal of laughter.

Darius held out an arm to block her – no, to protect her, she realized with a shudder. But why would he need to protect her from her own husband?

* * *

The burning in his chest had grown worse through the last hours of the day. His heart pounded slowly with a furious call to claim what was his, to put an end to this agony by sinking his teeth into his beloved's flesh and finally meld her blood with his own wasted body. He had paced the hours away, torn between triumph and pain.

Erik was aware of the Daroga's approach. He banged his fist upon the side of his piano, but not in anger. No, if he should only last throughout the following night, he should at least like to say goodbye.

"Ah, Daroga! I knew you would come."

Nadir held out his hands, bearded face full of misplaced concern. "You have bonded."

"Yes!"

"Have you told Christine?"

He snorted. "Why would I? She does not have to have any part in this. She does not have to _know_."

The Daroga's voice stayed easy, calming. "She is your wife."

"And a fine one she has made! She has played her role quite well, lured me in with her pretty face and kind words and soft touch. It is no wonder that I fell in love with her!"

He clamped his lips together. How easily the words had slipped out. He must be further gone than he had realized… So much the better that it should end quickly.

"At least you are finally admitting it, my friend," Nadir said. "You know very well what will come next. The heartbeat will turn into pain, and the pain will turn into madness. An unfinished bond will twist your mind as much as it will twist your body."

Erik shook his head. "I am already in pain. I am already mad. Lock me within these rooms and leave me be."

"You have to tell her, or you will die."

Erik threw back his head and let out a bitter laugh. "I am already dead! This is a blessing, Daroga. Don't you understand? For so long I have wanted all of this to end, and now all I have to do is _nothing_."

"You wish to die?" said the shocked voice of his wife.

Christine came down the stairs upon shaky feet, clutching at the stone wall to keep herself upright. Her sky-blue eyes were swimming with tears. Darius followed her, his hands poised as though he would snatch her back at any moment.

Erik forced his attention back to Daroga, who stood between them. "You knew she was there!" he accused.

"She has the right to know," Nadir said. "I am sorry, my brother, but enough of this foolishness."

Erik bared his teeth, his long-fingered hands gnarling like claws at his sides. They had allowed this human to enter his domain while he was in such a state, had allowed her to hear everything that had been said. A foolish, hopeful part of him had thought he could sit by and let the pieces fall into place; Christine had held his fate in her hands since the first night they had met face to face in the street. Now, staring into her wide eyes, seeing her trembling form and the rapid pulse in her neck, his vampiric nature surged forward.

The Daroga still stood between him and Christine. Nadir had served in the court of the Mistress for over a hundred years before Erik had even arrived in Mazandaran. He had climbed his way through the ranks using both physical and mental skill. He was a force that Erik had only been able to best once he himself had become a vampyre. With his wife long dead, he was an unattached blood-sucker, and therefore, the second most dangerous presence in the room.

A bonded vampyre who had not sealed his bond was far more dangerous.

Erik felt his fangs descend further, thick and sharp in his mouth. "Stand back from her lest I rip out your throat with my teeth."

Christine gasped at his words, but Nadir did as he commanded immediately. In a blink, he had stepped away from the staircase, further into the bedroom but away from Christine.

His wife, his _human_ wife, shuddered, her hands balled at her sides, but she did not shrink back as Erik strode to her upon long legs. He reached out a hand, well-aware of the pale, skeletal nature of the fingers, of how his fangs protruded from behind his thin lips, of how her stare took in every detail of his ghastly appearance.

"Come," he said.

She put her hand in his.

* * *

The back of Erik's chambers was a yawning maw of darkness. She felt when her black boots hit dusty stone, but soon, they were drowned in shadow. Erik walked swiftly, his grip upon her hand firm. She glanced behind them and found they were not being followed and only felt relief. For a while, all she could hear were their hurried footsteps and her own short, breathless pants loud in her ears.

Christine tripped once, twice, then tugged upon his hand.

"Please," she whispered in the dark. "I can't see."

He moved to the side, and she had to squint against the sudden blaze of an oil lantern. He did not speak to her, instead turning back to face the direction they were headed, his hold upon her hand unceasing, his other hand holding the lantern aloft. She got the impression that he could see quite well in the darkness, that he did not need the light, and her mind spun with so many unanswered questions.

Eventually, the rooms through which they passed narrowed into something like a tunnel. The stone became broken and more uneven and eventually swapped with jagged rock or packed earth. Christine had to more carefully pick where to step, Erik's own tread quick and sure. Their path led mostly at a downward angle, and the air grew chill and moist.

The tunnel ended at a small metal grate. Erik paused, and she heard the creak of metal upon metal before he nudged open the grate with his foot. He held it open with one arm and pulled her through.

"Where are we?" she asked. She could hear the rush of water. The path was no longer dirt but now made of white concrete.

"The sewers. We will not have to travel here long." He shut the grate behind them and pulled her along again. He walked with the security of someone who had traveled this path many times before, and Christine gulped in nervous lungfuls of air.

The tunnels of the sewer had domed roofs made of brick. A thick stream cut between them and the other side of the tunnel, and Christine kept her eyes ahead of them, not focusing too much on those murky depths that faded away into the darkness beyond the lantern. It was cold down here, and Christine wished she had not removed her cloak and gloves earlier. The heavy fabric would have been welcome across her shaking shoulders.

Erik's hand was pale around her own, his skin dry and cool, a stark contrast with her own warm palm sweaty with uneasiness He had so quickly shifted from wanting to stay away from her to whisking her away from Nadir and Darius… almost as if he was protecting her from them.

But who was correct in that situation? From whom did she truly need protection?

With quick, certain strides, he guided them down one tunnel and then the next, around a bend, until Christine lost track. Then Erik drew up short, sweeping the lantern across the brick of the curved wall.

"Hold this," he told her, handing her the lantern, not letting go of her hand even for a moment. He felt along the brick with his other hand, pressing fingertips into the grooves until he found what he sought. Christine heard a soft click and a hiss and the brick appeared to separate. Erik gave a hard push and part of the wall swung inward, revealing a narrow passageway made entirely of packed earth.

Christine held up the lantern she carried, but the glow of the flame only stretched so far into that black hall. She took a step backward, sucking in a breath when Erik tightened his grip upon her hand.

"Where are we going?" she asked, trying not to let her voice quaver.

His eyes mirrored the golden glow of the lamp. "To an old home of mine beneath the opera house."

She caught her reflection in the smooth glass of the lantern, her face pale with shock. He took a step toward the hidden passage, but she dug in her heels.

"W-Who are you, Erik?" she whispered.

He turned back around. His eyes swept over her face, searching for something unknown. "What does it matter anymore?"

Her lips parted to respond, but she decided to hold silent. His response had not seemed meant for her. She wet her lips, swallowed through the dryness in her throat. That night she had first met him in the streets seemed an eternity away. Words tumbled in her mind, shifting and rearranging, until she finally put them in the order that sent so many details clicking into place.

"What… _what_ are you?"

His shadow cast by the lantern flickered. Edges blurred, snapped back into place, and then stretched until melded with the rest of the darkness around them. His fingers around her hand spasmed.

"I am vampyre," he said at last.

She clutched onto that foreign word, tasted it with her tongue, found the truth finally hanging between them in the distance echoes of their voices.

And when he tugged upon her hand again, she went.

* * *

**NOW can we get on with the exciting bits? Yes, _yes._**


	16. Chapter 15: bite

**Yay, a chapter!**

* * *

**Chapter 15: bite**

Vampyre. _Vampyre_.

Christine tossed the word around within her head, tried to find meaning in it. Erik had put a name to himself, and in doing so, he had given her an opening into his world, his reality. All she had to do was step through.

And so she did.

It was a leap of faith. She needed so badly to trust him, to give herself over to him body, mind, and heart and have confidence that he would not bruise them. If she wanted him to open to her, to trust _her_ with his own truth, then she had no choice but to let him lead her forward.

They walked in silence for what seemed like a long time, Erik never letting go of her hand. He was careful with her, making certain her feet found the correct places to step, having her duck around a protruding rock or watch out for a damp spot on the path. Their journey had turned into one of weaving through the bowels of the Earth. Now and then, Erik showed her how to unlock a gate or choose the correct path. The teacher guided the pupil.

And then they came to the lake.

She shrank back from the sight of that wide expanse of still darkness stretching far beyond the reach of their lantern. She could feel the dampness on her skin, the air cooler here, and she knew without doubt that the water would be ice-cold. How deep did those depths wander? If she fell in, would they pull her down?

"Christine." The sound of her name within his voice drew her thoughts away from the gloom. "I will keep you safe."

Safe from this place? Or safe from him? She took a deep breath and blew it out.

"There is only one boat," Erik said of the small dingy tied at the edge of the water. "Do you see those pillars there?" He lifted the lantern and designated the posts in various positions across the lake. "Always stay to the left of them."

Christine did not ask why. She had seen enough in their expedition into the depths beneath Paris to know that this was a placed filled with traps for the unaware, a protected place that could keep intruders out. Erik stepped into the boat and she lifted her skirts to be able to join him. There was a narrow board across the back, and she sat there, watching as Erik hung the lantern at the bow and picked up a long pole braced along the edge of the boat.

He began to dip the pole into the inky water and push them across. For a while, only gnawing silence passed between them, broken now and then by the scrape of the pole against the wooden boat or the dripping of unseen water.

Christine bit the inside of her cheek. Needing a distraction, she asked, "What is a vampyre?"

He did not look back at her, his eyes focused on their path ahead. "Vampyre are those who have died but continue to walk amongst the living, bound to the night because the sun burns their skin."

_Those who have died, those who have died. Erik had… died? _"How… how can you be dead but also alive?"

"Their race dwells outside the boundaries of what you might call living. They are transformed humans – humans turned vampyre. For the most part, they live in secret. Any notice of them continues only within local folklore. The dhampir or haugbui or vetalas. The shtriga. The draugar."

Christine picked at a bit of lace detailing on her sleeve. "I heard tales of the draugar in Sweden when I was a little girl. Ghost stories told around campfires to scare children to bed. They can enter the dreams of the living and leave little gifts of their visit."

"The visitant," Erik grunted. "A nicer version of the truth, I suppose."

Christine shook her head. "They might also curse you, especially if they grow jealous of those who are still alive."

Erik was silent a moment, driving the pole deep into the black waters. "Why wouldn't they be? The living have everything they used to possess: sunlight, a life, _choice_." He snarled this last word, and Christine hugged her arms about her middle.

"I want to understand."

"The draugar and all other incarnations of vampyre exist only in the minds of humans as fairy tales. The truth is so much worse."

"That is all I want."

He looked over his shoulder at her, one piercing eye glittering in the lamplight. "Is it?" He turned back around. "We shall see."

Staying ever to the left, they made it across the eerie stillness of the lake. Erik eased the boat to a small dock drilled into the stone. Here, the edge of the water seemed purposefully shaped, edged in such a way to make stepping from the boat more natural. Cobblestone had been inlaid in a wide path from the shoreline. Erik stepped out, and his hand was once more a firm grip upon hers as he helped her to follow.

He did not retrieve the lamp, instead leaning over to twist the knob to extinguish it. For a moment, they were cast in the most solid darkness that Christine had ever encountered, and she gasped at the sensation of total blindness. Before her eyes could adjust, she could feel Erik moving. Flickering candles began to blaze into existence, first those closest to them arranged upon pedestals, then further up, lining a path that curved gently to a…

"It is a house," Christine said in wonder.

The little cottage was built into the side of the cavern, looking so normal despite its surroundings. The door was a soft shade of blue, and it was unlocked, allowing them to step inside without fuss. Erik waved his empty hand to alight sconces upon the walls, revealing a modest parlor and a more spacious living area beyond. Cream-colored sheets covered the pieces of furniture to protect against dust and the elements. Her shoes clunked upon rich wooden floors, most of which were covered in thick, decorative carpets.

Erik shut the door behind them, not bothering with a lock, and let go of her hand here. The house was as chilly as the caves had been, but Erik set to piling wood into a large fireplace. He retrieved some kindling and began to strike flint to light it.

Christine edged a little closer, curious. "You are able to light candles with the flick of your hand. Are you not able to do so in a hearth?"

The kindling caught the spark and held it, blazing to life as Erik cupped his hands around it. She noticed he did not blow to grow the flame. Soon, however, he had enough fire to pile on sticks, and then he straightened.

"The lighting of candles is mostly a parlor trick," he said. "Vampyre can do these things, talented or not. They can flick lights on and off, unlock human-made locks, cross long distances without tiring, cloak themselves in shadow."

"Or hide your true face," she added.

His eyes flickered to hers. "Yes. The glamour."

This conversation bothered him; she could tell by the stiff way he stood, by the way he tried to watch her without watching her. He seemed to shake himself and went about the expansive room to tug off the sheets and pile them in a corner. She swung her own attention to what he revealed, taking in the bookshelves, the ornate but comfortable furniture, the sleek black piano in the corner.

She moved to the far wall and glanced at the titles and saw mostly books in other languages. There was so much about this man, this… vampyre, that she did not know.

She turned back toward him. "You wore a different face when we first met, but I remember how much your glamour made my head ache. I much prefer your true self – why did you try to hide from me?"

"The glamour allows us to walk amongst humans without being noticed. It softens our appearance, makes humans less likely to grow afraid of us, and ensures we will be forgotten when we leave."

"Why would you need the ability to do such a thing?"

He shifted from one foot to another. His hands white-fisted at his sides. "Christine."

"_Erik._"

"I am what I am, Christine!" he said with sudden ferocity, throwing his long arms wide. "Do you truly have a need to expose all of my secrets? Is that what you must demand of me?"

Her heart thudded in her chest. "I have already told you. I just want the truth. What was the point of bringing me here if you did not want to have this conversation? Did you think I wouldn't want to know? I want to know everything, Erik!"

"Everything? _Everything?_" His voice grew to a roar, and the walls seemed to shudder around them from the force of it. "Would you enjoy hearing the truth about why I took you away from the Daroga and Darius? I brought you down here like a dog might try to bury its bone. To keep you away from the others who might want a taste. To ensure that you would be mine and mine alone without interference."

In a blink, he was in front of her. She stumbled back into the shelves. She had not even been able to see him move. He pressed close, his hands landing on either side of hers upon the shelves behind her. His large body was large and statuesque, and thin wisps of fog seeped around him. He bent and tucked his face into the crook of her neck, his hard mask cold against her skin.

She could feel his lips move, his voice a hoarse rumble in her ear. "If you knew the thoughts swirling in my head right now, you would never concede to be alone with me again. I am truly a monster, Christine. A monster I was made into without my accord, but a monster nonetheless. I did not choose to be this way, and I spent a century seeking a way out, but when I thought I had found my path, I also found that I could not follow it."

He pressed closer still. The shelves dug into her shoulders and lower back, and her heart thundered in her ears.

"Ah, Christine," he said against her neck just above the high collar of her black bodice. She should have felt his breath, only felt the cold caress of his lips. "The moment I saw you standing in that pavilion, your hair shining like sunlight, I knew you could finally be the true death of me. And now that moment has come, and I am too much a coward to take the opportunity."

"Is- is this what Nadir meant? Th-That all you had to do to end your life was nothing?"

"Yes." He shifted, hips digging into hers as though he was trying to meld their bodies together. She had not been this close to him in so long, and she felt a stirring within her, a longing for more than even this closeness.

"I saw my end in you, Christine, and instead you may have saved me. I only wish I could ease your way."

"You… you mean the glamour?"

It was the last bit of a puzzle she so desperately yearned to complete. The first time they had met, when he had curved his body around hers like he was now, when he had shielded her from the rain, she had been overcome with the feeling that she was being stalked like a predator tracked its prey. That feeling had eased as she had spent more time with him, but his lips at her throat now sent her pulse racing.

Erik's lips parted. She tensed, expecting the pierce of fangs, but he only brushed his lips across the edge of the collar of her dress.

"I can sense that you are frightened," he said at last, his voice low. "I can hear the rapid pulse of your heartbeat. I can see your veins throb with the increased rush of blood. The glamour soothes these instinctual fears and makes the human more pliant, more easily seduced."

"S-Seduced?"

He pulled back. His eyes glowed like silken honey, his pupils large. His fangs protruded from his mouth, and she had never seen them this close, this long and gleaming. She could not remove her focus from them.

"The relationship between human and vampyre should be symbiotic. We are not meant to be feared."

* * *

_"We are not meant to be feared." _His own words echoed in his mind. Now that he had said them, he found them to be true. He yearned to soothe Christine's fear of him, to calm her flittering heartbeat, to have her accept him in all ways.

But how could he demand such a thing from her if he did not accept himself?

He pulled further back, suddenly far too aware of her penetrating stare. Her hands lashed out and grabbed onto the lapels of his coat. He could have easily wrenched away. Instead, he allowed her to hold him in place. _He_ was the one who trembled under the weight of her examination.

"I am glad your glamour does not work on me," she said softly. "Whatever I feel, I feel it unaltered, with my own self. I can tell you are still holding back on me, Erik. Why can't you trust me?"

The words spilled from him, no longer kept at bay by caution. "How can you trust _me_? You married me under false pretenses, Christine. My human body died long ago. The papers I used to make our marriage legal were forged. My body has become so withered and useless that I could not even make you mine on our wedding night! If you want out, the out is yours. This marriage can be annulled. You do not owe me your life!"

How much it pained him to say such things to her! His eyes burned with the need to shed tears but none came.

Her eyes were wide, her irises dark blue in the firelight. Her chest rose and fell in quick succession. He watched as she regained control of herself until she could speak without trembling.

"We… we will have to discuss these things more, Erik, but I know that in that church, I made a vow. I promised to be your wife for better or for worse, in sickness and in health. Until death."

Sweet, naïve girl.

"I am already dead," he whispered.

Her hands loosened and pressed flat to his chest, one of them slipping under his cravat to find the slow rhythm of his own revived heart.

"You are very much alive to _me_ despite the way you have been changed."

She brought her hands up slowly, keeping them where he could track her movement, and settled her palms to either side of his mask. His first instinct was to wrench away, but he forced himself still. Let her strip off his mask if she dared.

However, she merely traced his jawline, her fingertips studying him. "Did you bring me here to try and keep me, Erik? You already have me." She leaned in as though to kiss him, her fingertips traveling to his lips.

"Ow!"

She hissed in a sharp breath, and in a flash, he caught her wrist in his immobilizing grip. A pinprick of blood dotted her slender index finger. He should not have let her venture too close; his fangs were far too eager tonight.

He may not have had a nose, but there were some scents too instinctive to a vampyre's senses to be ignored. A heady aroma like burgundy wine assailed him, combined with swirls of copper and honeysuckle. It was a complex scent, as complicated as the woman before him, and he felt his fangs lengthen further.

Christine gave a tug, but he did not let her go. "Let me have a taste of you, Christine," he said huskily.

Before she could respond, he brought her finger between his lips and laid the pierced drop flat upon his tongue.

Pure enlightenment.

Fresh, alive blood, thrumming with Christine's life, met his parched tongue. He did not suck, let himself give enough of a lick to clean the droplet from her warm skin. Never had he tasted a substance that could wring addiction from him as swiftly as the sweet taste of her. Quickly, before he lost control, he pierced the edge of his tongue and healed the puncture his fang had caused.

He could not bring himself to let go of her wrist, but he lowered their hands, well-aware of her quickened heartbeat. She seemed stunned by what had transpired between them. He wanted to calm her, to help her across the crest of rejection. Perhaps he could never have her grow to love him, but he would gladly accept an eternity of mere _acceptance_.

She needed a distraction, and he could offer up one. Gently, he pulled her toward the sleek black piano across the room. He left her standing by the piano bench, then sat and pulled up the keyboard cover.

Slowly, as not to startle her, he began to play, compensating for the out of tune keys that had gone too long unused. The ballad poured from his fingertips, steady in its tempo, a calm melody unlike what he might play when alone. He was well-aware of her stillness at his back, how she might be studying the tightness in his shoulders, the seam of where his wig met his skin, the thin bit of cord that held his mask in place. He forced his attention upon his hands; he detested his spidery digits, but at least they could wring music from any instrument he touched.

He flowed from one sonata to the next, beginning to choose pieces more familiar to her. He strayed away from Swedish melodies, not wanting to stir up such memories, instead leading her into his own catalog and other well-known operatic solos.

Behind him, her breathing began to ease, her chest loosening. He could only imagine the thoughts swirling behind those silken golden curls.

And then he heard her begin to sing.

She startled with only humming along with the notes his fingers plucked. Gradually, she found the main thread and followed it, stirring new life into the concerto. He stumbled, caught himself, and then he felt a gentle pressure upon his shoulders.

"Keep playing? Please?" she said softly, now so close, her hands alighted to either side of his collar.

He refocused his attention, swept back into the song, matching tempo to her wordless string of notes, but she was so close to him. Her scent wafted around his shoulders, and he could feel the heat of her against his back. His tongue rubbed against the roof of his mouth, seeking any lasting flavor of her. His fangs elongated once again.

One of her thumbs swept along his jaw. What was she doing? Was she trying to push him back again toward the edge of madness? He'd had a taste of her, and by the gods, he yearned for more of her than he had ever wanted anything alive or dead. How could she not now have become aware of just how sharp his teeth could be?

Or was she trying to push past her own fear?

By pushing him.

He sped into another sonata, and her voice matched his increased pace, beginning to form the Italian words, her pronunciation hesitant. A shiver raced up his bony spine. For two decades he had eaten little to nothing, and his belly ached, his veins cried out for nourishment, his heart pumped the dry beat of starvation.

Her hand shifted as though to return to his shoulder. The fleshy part of her palm brushed along the edge of his mouth, so soft, so _warm_. He could turn his head ever so slightly, part his lips, and –

_Blood_.

The scent of blood hit him. His fangs were wedged deep within Christine's palm, living skin and flesh pulsing around his lips. He reached up to grasp the back of her hand, to keep her still, but she wrenched away from him. His fangs dragged across her palm, slicing, and he felt the hot wash of blood across his mouth and jaw.

* * *

_Pain._

Christine staggered away, eye wide, as Erik half rose from the bench. She cradled her injured hand against her chest. Her palm was aflame, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Fear flooded her system, causing tremors that made her unsteady. Blood trickled down her wrist, hot and tickling.

"You- you _bit_ me," she said, her voice sounding far too shrill.

He stood fully but did not move toward her, hands loose at his sides. A smear of blood was shockingly red across the edge of his mouth.

"Do you enjoy this game, Christine?"

"W-what?"

He skirted around the piano bench. His eyes were golden-bright but the pupils had blown huge. "I am vampyre. These fangs serve a vicious purpose, and twice now you have ventured too close to them of your own accord."

Her face flushed hotly, but she could not tell the source – anger or embarrassment or otherwise. The front of her bodice began to grow damp. She glanced down, appalled at the startling spread of blood across her hand and down her wrist.

"Erik, I- I need a bathroom." She could not think of anything else to say to try to get away from him.

"Behind you," he growled.

Christine spun on her heel and fled through an open doorway past the piano. The door led to a small bedroom with an attached powder room. The bathroom was large enough for a claw-footed tub, toilet, and sink with far more sophisticated pumping than she expected in an underground house.

She spun open the faucet with her cleaner hand. Brownish water spurted out, but it soon cleared, and she stuck her hand beneath the stream, hissing at the coldness of it upon the gash. Splashes of pink and red blotched the white porcelain. With the blood rinsed away, she could see the deep gash in her hand; it began at her wrist and traveled to the center of her palm. She ached all the way up to her elbow.

"What are you doing, Christine?"

She jerked her head to stare up at Erik who stood in the doorway. He had wiped his own face clean. He seemed to have calmed, his movements slow and controlled, though his eyes were still far too bright.

"What…" She wet her lips. "What do you mean?"

He stepped closer. She watched as he lifted one of his hands and plucked a stray curl that had fallen from her chignon, tucking it around her ear with long fingers. Then he cupped her cheek, and the gesture was so tender, she forgot all her other fears for a brief, breath-holding moment.

"Give me your hand," he said, his voice firmer than the soft touch upon her cheek. "I will heal you."

She sucked in a sharp, audible breath. "Erik…"

"Do not deny me, Christine. Give me your hand."

Stinging rose behind her eyes, the first sign of tears tonight. However, when he straightened and held out for her to comply, she found herself obeying his command. Long fingers curled around her hand, grip immobilizing but careful not to touch her wound. He lifted her hand at the same time as he lowered his mouth to her palm. Remembrance of those sharp teeth flashed in her mind, and she tried to wrench away again; she had no more success than begging stone to bend.

"Be still," he hissed. "Trust that I will not harm you."

She blinked away another rush of tears. "I am trying."

His eyes narrowed at that, but he did not comment further. Quickly, he pressed his lips to her palm, the touch a cool firmness that brought instant relief to her inflamed flesh. As she watched, he drew back enough to flick his tongue against one of his fangs, drawing a welling of black blood.

Then he was back upon her palm, his tongue lashing across the gash there in broad, sure strokes. Heat spread deep within her, pooling low in her stomach, as she watched in rapt fascination. He licked across her palm, and within seconds, her wound began to close. He continued his ministrations, swiping the pad of his tongue against her skin over and over, his eyes sliding closed, until her pain faded into a dull ache and the blood was cleaned away, and all of her nerve endings seem to be firing off at once.

Slowly, he straightened, lowering her hand until she could gently tug it free. "Give me a moment," he said, voice deeper than she had ever heard it.

They stood there in silence. Christine wished she could see more of his expression behind the mask; with his eyes closed, he was even more detached. Finally, she could stand it no more.

"Tell me how you did that. How did you heal me?"

He gave a shake of his shoulders and finally opened his eyes again. They were even brighter than before. "Some vampyre only take, and their fangs bring only pain, but that is not meant to be the way of things. Your blood gives me the life I no longer have of my own, and in the process of receiving it, I am not meant to take yours."

"But your fangs," she said, looking down at her now unmarked palm. "Both times, they hurt so much."

"You touched them of your own accord."

He was right. Her thoughts fled back to the feeling of his tongue upon her skin, of how her own body had reacted to his attention, and she found she could not put aside her desire to know him… in all ways.

"Show me how it can be different."

The words fled from her mouth before she could chase them back. Her lips parted to explain, to say she did not intend to _allow_ him to bite her. And yet his reaction made her pause.

His pupils blew again, swallowing nearly his entire golden iris. His hands flexed at his sides, his long fingers pumping the air as though they were being back from touching her. His shadow extended and flailed at the wall behind him, stretching over the doorway; an extension of himself barely kept in check.

"Do not toy with me, Christine. The scent of blood is still strong upon you. My endurance can only be stretched so thin."

"I mean what I say."

He bared his teeth at her. His fangs were as bone-white as his mask, and she stared openly. Fear made her heart flutter, yes, but longing stirred deep in her belly again. The memory of his mouth upon her beckoned a flush that crept up her throat.

She met his intense gaze. "I- I trust you."

He stepped toward her, not relenting until her back pressed flat to the smooth surface of the wall behind her. Her chest bumped against the silken waistcoat covering his ribcage. God, he was so tall.

He paused.

Slowly, deliberately, she tilted her head to the side.

He snarled and dove, lips at the line of throat she had just curved, open to his perusal. His hands encircled both of her wrists and pressed them to either side of her head, holding them to the wall. She cried out, expecting the pain of teeth, but she felt only the cool firmness of his lips and the tingle of his rumbling voice upon her sensitive skin.

"You test every piece of resistance that I have, my dear wife. You know what I am, and yet here you are, offering your throat to a vampyre."

She swallowed. "Not any vampyre…" _My vampyre, _she thought. _You are mine as much as I am yours_.

"I cannot go back from this, Christine," he said, words against her rapid pulse. "You may be my human wife, but you are also my bonded. And the sealed bond cannot be undone except by death. Once I break your willing skin, you are _mine_."

And then she did feel the sharpness of teeth against her neck, ghosting the edge of danger.

"I trust you, Erik," she said again.

The following growl rose gooseflesh along her skin. He took her hands, and tucked them between their bodies, and pressed them to his chest.

"Push me away, if you must," he snarled. "And if you cannot, remove my mask to make me stop."

And then he struck.

_Pain_. She felt pain, like two sharp nails sinking into the side of her throat. They slid in so easily, a hot knife through cool butter, and she felt herself part around his fangs, her senses burning with heat and the intimate feel of _him _penetrating and –

_Ease._ The pain eased, sinking into a relieving sort of ache, like muscles pushed too hard the day before, an ache that promised the development of something more in the future. The cry that had rose within her evaporated. She was pinned between his hard body and the wall, and his lips fastened around his fangs.

She whimpered, waiting.

_Pulse_. A different sort of cry emerged from her mouth, catching on the edge of a sob as he began to _suck_. She could still feel the unforgiving lines of his fangs, but he began to draw from her in steady, long pulls that sent heat racing south, throbbing between her legs, matching his tempo. His tongue lapped at her, so very damp and far warmer than she had ever felt him before.

She fisted the rough linen upon his chest, but not to push him away, to draw him closer. He huffed a moan against her skin, air blowing out through the nose holes in his mask, the first sign of his breath she had witnessed. Her thighs squeezed together, welcoming the deep burn building at her core, trying to both relieve the pressure and encourage further friction.

He shifted, and his hands delved into her hair, fingers tugging deliciously at her scalp, pins popping onto the floor, guiding her head further to the side with gentle but insistent force. His mouth was clamped on the curve of her neck, and she thought she might break from that steady draw, the streaming suck felt all the way into her very existence.

"God, Erik!"

She shattered, saw flashes of light behind her clenched eyelids, felt her body quake within the circle of his strong arms. She clung to him white-knuckled as though she could pull him further into her, meld their two bodies together more intimately than the way he was deep-seated in her now. She wanted, she _hungered, _she thought she might perish if she did not free the crescendo building within her.

She felt his knee between her legs, the hard ridge jutting at her hip, and though he had told her to push him away, she could no more do so than she could remember why she had been so afraid.


	17. Chapter 16: complete

_**Finally.**_

* * *

**Chapter 16: complete**

Her cry sounded in his ears, so very far away but echoing in his mind – the call of his beloved on the verge of her endurance. He released at once, fangs sliding free of her skin, already bemoaning the loss of the feel of her. In a quick blur, he had pierced his tongue and lapped at the two marks, closing her punctures. Soon, no blemish at all would remain.

For a moment, all he could do was remain with his face buried against her neck, one hand slipping to grasp her quivering shoulder, the other remaining within her soft, golden curls. Blood, fresh and rich and warm, coursed through his veins. He was alive in ways he had not been since he had been turned vampyre. For the first time in so long, his lungs drew in and pushed out air, and it took a while for that rhythm to stabilize, for the sensation of drowning to pass.

Her fists in his shirt unclenched and smoothed down his chest. "Are you all right?" she murmured, sweet voice slightly slurred.

Was _he_ all right! She was the one who had endured a vampyre forcing himself upon her. _Her_ flesh had been torn not once but _thrice_, and yet she was concerned about his state of being.

He pulled back enough to gaze down at her. Her cheeks were rosy-flush, her chest heaving beneath her stained bodice. Her hair had come loose and hung in damp ringlets around her face. Bright blue eyes met his own.

"What…" Here her cheeks pinked even more. "What did I taste like?"

Dear gods. His long-dormant body stirred further, pressing against her hip. Perhaps he should have moved away, shifted that ridge away from her for there was no way she had not noticed.

"Erik?"

"Wine and honey," he replied gruffly. "Like the sun."

Her blush deepened into a full flush of red. She was beautiful and _his_ and the hand not in her hair drifted to skirt between her body and the wall, drawing the small of her back closer to him. Instead of recoiling, she sighed and laid her cheek against his chest.

"I hear your heart beating. It's stronger now."

Her blood ran through him, now. But he did not say so, did not want to frighten her with such words.

"Did I hurt you?"

"Only a little, at first. I do feel a bit unsteady."

"That should pass quickly. Come, you should rest until your body recovers." And he needed distance from her before he pushed her any further tonight.

Erik removed his hand from her curls and bent slightly to adjust his arms until he could scoop her up. He could have laid her on the small spare bed nearby, but he so desperately needed her in his own room, even if he had not slept there in decades.

His bed chamber opened into pure darkness. Christine had wound her arms around his neck, and now she squeezed him tighter. The scent of blood was still far too strong on her clothes. Even though he had drunk deeply from her, he had not partaken of near enough to satiate his hunger. His body thrummed with new life and a deeper longing than he had felt since becoming a vampyre.

He did his best to focus upon setting Christine on her feet long enough for him to pull off the dusty sheets covering the bed, but she clung to him, small fingers curled around his shoulders.

"It is dark, Erik."

"I am here," he said, a monster protecting his little wife. If only someone could protect her from him. The scent of blood still lingered, and he felt his fangs elongate again.

He kept a firm hand upon the small of her back and flicked his other wrist to spur candlelight from the sconces on the walls. She blinked in the sudden light, her face still flushed, and he was dazzled by the smile she gave him, her face tilted upwards. He kept his lips firmly upon his teeth to hide them.

"Will you rest here tonight?" he asked. "In my room?"

"Will you stay with me?"

He stroked a thumb over the smooth curve of her chin. "Yes."

Her face flushed again. "Help me undress?"

His heart gave a painful thump, speeding up from its sluggish pace. "I cannot touch your bodice."

She looked down at herself and blanched at the blood stain there, an odd darker color on the black silk. Her deft fingers undid the buttons down the front, and she did not hesitate to peel the fabric off, revealing smooth, white shoulders a shade darker than the thin straps of her white chemise.

A spot of dull red was stark upon the lace covering the upmost curve of her breast. Erik snarled to see it, unable to hold back a fresh surge of hunger.

Christine jumped and looked up at him with startled eyes. "The sight of my blood bothers you?"

"When negligently spilled, yes. It is a waste, and it has been far too long since I have eaten, and I am not yet satisfied." He grasped onto her upper arm and spun her, and he slashed at the ties of her corset, snapping them easily until the structure parted around her back. The mark was upon her chemise, however, and so he continued, tugging down the linen straps, revealing swaths of the creamy skin of his beloved.

Her hands came upon his, but not to stop him. Firmly, she guided his fingers to the ties of her skirt. Together, both their hands set a course for removing one layer after another, until she stood before him in only her underwear and stockings, her shoes having been kicked off.

Her cheeks were a deep pink as she turned back around, her eyes bright and watching his every expression. "Better?"

Not yet.

He fell to his knees in the puddle of her clothing and pressed his face to her warm skin. She sucked in a sharp breath, but whether from his closeness or the cold, hard nose of his mask, he did not know. His hands came up to grasp her hips to keep her still. His lips traced the ridge of her collarbone, and his tongue flicked at the place where soft flesh began to rise to its womanly fullness. He found the last whispers of blood upon her skin and swiped them away with his tongue. Even that minute taste made his fangs throb, but at least the scent was now gone.

The pace of Christine's breaths had increased, her heart pounding beneath the line of his jaw. He allowed his lips to travel between her breasts, and he pulled her closer by the hips to step between his open knees. Her hands rested lightly on his shoulders.

"Let me have you, Christine," he murmured against her skin. "Your blood has set fire to my veins. It has stirred life within me again. Let me have you as a man has his wife."

If she disallowed him, he would remove his hands from her body and merely watch over her while she slept as he had promised. It would take all of his control, but he would do it. His body thrummed with longing for her. It was all he could do to hold still and await her response.

The hands upon his shoulders came to his chest, grasped the edges of his coat, and began to peel it back. "No more lies," she said softly. "Promise me."

"By any gods of Heaven or Hell, I swear it."

She tugged more sharply at his coat, insistent, and he let go of her long enough to shrug out of the heavy fabric. Then he was upon her with lips and tongue again, seeking out the two rose-tipped peaks of her breasts, ever so careful to pull those tender little buds between his fangs without scraping. She was so soft and so warm and _alive_ beneath his ministrations. He used his newfound abilities to his advantage, dampening one tip and then blowing upon it to watch in fascination as it pebbled. Christine gave a little gasp, and he wondered at what other noises he could pull from her.

He clutched at her hips, then brought his hands lower to cup her backside. Easily, he stood, bringing her legs around his waist, dragging his lips to kiss whatever of her he could reach. She huffed a laugh. She was so tiny in his arms, and it was nothing to hold her with one hand while he pulled the protective top sheet off the bed with the other.

He sat her on the edge of the bed and knelt again, this time between her knees. Her eyes were a brilliant blue, and the corners of her mouth curled upward.

"I want your hair down," he said.

One of her fine blonde eyebrows rose. "You already have me at a disadvantage, monsieur."

He growled at that, rising to cup one of her breasts and bring the tip to his mouth again. She squirmed against the onslaught, then shakily began to acquiesce, pulling pin after pin from her styled coif, her cheeks flaming red. Once she had freed her tresses, he dove in with both hands, marveling at the feeling of pure golden silk upon his spindly fingers.

He felt her tug upon his cravat. He planted a quick, careful kiss upon her lips and pulled her further up the bed. "Lie back, dear wife."

She obliged. Before him, she stretched out across the black coverlet. Her pale skin seemed to glow, and her freed hair fanned around her beautiful, blushing face in golden curls. He tugged off his cravat and tossed it to the side, and she watched him with half-lidded eyes. His waistcoat followed, and he toed off his shoes. A normal man might have kept going, might have removed the rest of his clothing and stood proudly before her.

But he was not a man, was he? He was all too aware of the body that existed beneath his clothes. His form had been ugly before he had been turned, and it had turned even more horrific since he had refused nourishment.

He wanted to drive away these thoughts about himself. He bent to give attention to her soft belly above her drawers with lips and tongue.

"Erik," she breathed.

Oh, _his_ name within her lovely throat! He needed to feel her softness against him, to bury himself within her warmth and ignore anything else that had occurred before or would transpire after. She was his center, his point of origin, his provocation to become more than the monster he believed himself to be.

For a moment, all he could do was press his face to her trembling belly.

* * *

Christine lay still. Her thoughts warred with her desires. She wanted badly to touch him, to smooth away whatever hesitations he still had. He was so close to her, and yet he seemed so far away. He could be at once tender and gentle, and harsh and rigid, and he could swing quickly from one to the next, leaving her dizzy with the effort to keep up.

His breath tickled across her stomach, and she squirmed a bit. This seemed to rouse him. He rose, took hold of her britches, and began to pull them down her hips relentlessly, and she inhaled sharply at her sudden nakedness. One stocking followed the next, each peeled off in steady, unwavering motions until she lay before him, face burning more than ever.

His golden eyes swept over her, taking in each curve and lump and little scar. Her hands crept to cover herself. He rumbled an objection and moved closer again, a knee between hers, his fingers interlacing with hers and pushing the backs of her hands to either side of her head.

"You are beautiful," he mouthed against the valley between her breasts. "Do not ever doubt that you are the most glorious woman I have ever seen."

She whimpered as he sought the tip of one breast once again, his hard lips worrying the sensitive bud, sending more heat flooding between her legs. She could feel the thickness of him against her hip in a way she had never felt before. She squirmed, seeking more friction against that part of him.

"E-Erik. Please… I want you…. I want you to…"

One of his hands left hers to quest with cool fingers. The first touch upon her inflamed flesh made her stiffen, but his finger slid across her easily, and she heard the chuckle in her ear.

"Dear wife, you are already deliciously slick with need. Shall I touch you further?"

"Y-Yes."

His finger ran along her cleft, teasing, growing damp with her own enthusiasm. Then it slid inside to the first knuckle and curled, throwing sparks behind her eyelids. The hard edge of his palm pressed just so, and a new flush of pleasure made her gasp.

"Let me hear you. Let me hear the pleasure my touch brings you, lovely Christine."

He rocked his palm, and his finger twisted just so inside her, and she could feel how slippery she became, how much he affected her. Little cries rose from her throat. Her free hand grabbed onto his shirt cuff and clutched as though his wrist were her lifeline. Her belly tightened, her thighs seized, her body felt strung tightly, building toward a crescendo on the horizon.

Although she had her eyes clenched, she could tell he watched her every reaction. His rapt focus was as intense as his dancing hand between her legs. A second finger added to the first, the fit tighter but without discomfort. Teeth scraped along the rise of her breast, sharp but without pain.

"Yes," he hissed, breath hot along her skin.

She came apart.

She pulsed around his fingers, throbbed against his palm. The energy flowed from his touch and rose goosebumps along her skin, and she arched her back and let it consume her, wash over her while he hovered just above her, drinking in her pleasure with captivated attention.

His fingers gradually slowed as her response did. Tenderly, he swiped them over her damp folds one last time before removing them. Christine kept her eyes closed, could feel him shifting, and then she could hear the soft suck as he tasted, and she dared not look upon such a sight, too overwhelmed merely by the vision in her head as he cleaned his fingers.

He hummed in satisfaction. Then, he unfolded his other hand from hers and grasped onto her hips, urging her to roll over. Languidly, she did so without considering why.

"My beautiful Christine," he said, brushing aside her hair to press closed lips to her shoulder. "How I want you… I can scarcely wait another moment without feeling you."

Behind her, Christine felt him shift further upon the bed. She heard the dry rasp of clothing being parted.

Her eyes flew open. She stared at the wrinkles of the black coverlet beneath her cheek, at her fingers twisted in the silky cloth. Had she not been in this position once before? He had taken her upon their wedding night – or let her _think_ he had taken her – and then left with barely another word. They were worlds away from those two people now. Heaven help her if she did not speak up.

"No, Erik!"

He froze at once, turning as still as a monument behind her.

She swallowed thickly and reached out to touch the jut of one of his knees. "I cannot do it like this again, not in this p-position again. Please, Erik. Not after the first time we were together."

When he did not answer, she twisted within the circlet of his large body to be able to face him. His jaw bulged in a clenched set, and his knuckles were fisted white upon his thighs. His pants were unbuttoned, but that was a far as he had progressed. She wet her lips, drawing his eyes to her mouth for a moment before he flicked them to the side again.

She sat up a little, grateful that her hair curled over her shoulders to cover much of her breasts. "I am so sorry. I panicked because my mind immediately thought back to our wedding night, when I was so afraid, and when you… when you left me alone afterward. I don't want the memories of that first night to color what we are sharing between us now. I just – I just need this time to be different."

He gave a chuff, eyes still fixated somewhere along the wall.

"Are you angry with me?" she asked, eyebrows drawing together.

"I am angry with myself," he said through clenched teeth.

Ah.

She shifted more so she could rise upon her knees, careful not to touch him more than necessary. He was still fully clothed in shirt and pants, while she kneeled naked before him, and yet she did not feel like the one exposed at this moment.

Slowly, she tilted up her face and pressed her lips to his. His lips were firm and cool and unyielding. She pulled back and then kissed him again, still soft and easy, coaxing him to respond. Her tongue grazed the seam of his lips, and he parted on a shaky exhale, his breath warm. She seized upon his reaction, angled her head, and pressed closer to deepen the kiss.

Suddenly, one of his hands delved into the curls at her nape, while his other arm flew around her back and drew her fully to him. Her sensitive skin brushed the rougher linen of his clothing, but she had no time to gasp at the sensation for his lips were upon hers again, this time alive and soft with need.

"Make love to me," she said within the space between their lips.

He chuffed a groan against her. Then his hands grasped both of her wrists and drew them between them. Still kissing, he traced the outline of his chest, allowing her fingertips to map the hardness of him beneath his shirt. She felt the dip of his collarbone, the strength in his pectorals, the jut of ribs before he moved her hands back upward. Then he took one hand and moved it from his upper arm, down across the bulge of biceps and sinew of forearms. He mimicked the other arm with the same precision.

Christine understood at once. He had just mapped the allowable parts of his body. Given these new guidelines, she set to exploring with her hands, and his mouth upon hers began to turn more insistent.

She felt the bulge of him against her naval, and while she desperately wanted to verge further down his belly, she obeyed his wishes. She grasped onto his upper arms and gave a tug, coaxing him to come down to the bed with her. He obliged, and his weight settled comfortably between her thighs, his elbows to either side of her shoulders.

She encouraged him with more urgent kisses, careful to keep her hands from straying. Fingers sought her core again, still slick from earlier, and then the hem of his shirt dragged across her stomach as his pants came undone. She kept her focus on his mouth upon hers, on how he did his best to keep his lengthy fangs from nipping her, each kiss drawing her further within this moment.

The hot press of _him_ at her entrance took her breath away. He paused, adjusted his knees closer, causing her thighs to fall further open around his narrow hips, and then he was sliding in with steadfast progress. She clung to his upper arms and felt the muscles there bunch and quiver. She became consumed with the sensation of being filled from within, her body accommodating his length little by little with a fullness that was impossible to describe properly.

Finally, he stopped, fully seated, a part of him buried deep within her body. He pressed his face in the crook of her neck, and a shaky breath washed her skin. "Are… are you all right?"

"Yes," she whispered. She moved her hips a little, and they both gasped at the feeling. Any discomfort was easily pushed to the side. This was _Erik_, and he was inside her, his large bulk surrounding her, his lips at her neck.

"I will move now."

"_Please_."

He drew back, skin dragging slickly along skin, and glided in again, this time easier than the first. He moved at an agonizingly slow pace, a steady in and out that left her breathless by an intense feeling so much so that she thought she might be driven mad by it. How could a movement so simple create stars behind her eyelids, cause her thighs to tighten around his hips as she built again, send small tremors racing up her spine?

She felt a sharp sting along her throat.

Erik jerked his head to the side, mouth away from her, and a groan rose from deep within his chest. With a wrench, he brought his forearm up, and she realized with a shock that he was going to bite himself… so that he did not bite her.

She needed to stop him. She laid a hand upon his mask at the cheek, not grasping, not pulling, only enough to get his attention. He halted all motion, suspended in time so thoroughly that she could not even hear nor feel him breathe. Quickly, she brought her hand down to clasp his chin instead and turn that tightened jaw back toward her.

"I am yours," she whispered. And she turned her own face to the side.

"_Christine._"

He fell upon her, hips bucking at the same moment his fangs sank deep into her neck. She cried out against the first stab of pain, but it quickly melded into the glorious ache from earlier. He did not pause again, beginning his steady pace once more, the plunge that drove him deep within her. However, this time he began to build, and she built along with him.

The first suck spread fire throughout her body, and she bucked against him, crying out his name. He plunged into her fiercely, bucking against the backs of her thighs. He pulled from her vein again, a deep suck that nearly brought her to the edge. She clung to his shoulders, let herself be carried away by this man, by _her vampyre_.

_Again, again_, her mind cried out, and he gave it to her with another long draw, hot tongue lapping, sharp hips driving so deeply that he dug into her thighs. She spiraled, too many points of sensation on which to focus, and she could do nothing more than allow it all to wash her away. Her soul seemed to split into fragments, and when she sought the pieces of herself to put them back together, she found she would never be the same again.

* * *

**Mmm what next?**


End file.
